A Gray Area
by purpletrees
Summary: There's something suspicious about an unexpected bouquet. Especially when it's from Sherlock Holmes. Joining a secret society is the only way to break the case, but will it ask too much of Sherlock and John? Slash. Some bad language.
1. Chapter 1: Flowers in the Window

A Gray Area

Chapter One: Flowers in the Window.

Set after _The Hounds of the Baskervilles_ but before _The Reichenbach_ _Fall_. I don't think that it will stay in canon for Reichenbach as I couldn't do that to John!

*Sorry for the editing - I just noticed this morning (UK time) that a 'sectary' is the member of a sect and it annoyed me too much to leave in. I promise not to edit anymore until I have finished the second chapter.*

Disclaimer: I own nothing. All rights to the BBC, Gatiss and Moffat.

* * *

John dumped the shopping as near to the kitchen table as Sherlock's experiments allowed and gingerly picked the TV remote out of the sink. He waved it in the living room's direction and thankfully the set kicked on with a start. He let out a relieved sigh and gave the kettle the customary once over. The smell of boiling newts, eyeballs and pondweed was particularly unforgettable. Bubble bubble toil and trouble indeed.

"Defence Secretary Resigns Over Unofficial Advisor's Role in Washington visit. Andrew McCloud, former flatmate and business advisor to Defence Secretary Jonathan Reid, refused to comment on his friend's resignation. Number 10 released the following statement…"

The BBC presenter's clipped Estuary English drowned out the kettle and John finished his tea ritual. Where was Sherlock? He had been here an hour ago. John cast his eyes along the rolling words at the bottom of the TV screen searching for the keywords 'murder' and 'London'. Not that easy then but Sherlock would have texted him if it was important, well if it was interesting, so in the knowledge he wasn't being left out of all the fun, John settled down to enjoy his hard earned tea.

A few minutes later Sherlock stomped through the door. "The ties, Mrs Hudson: purple, definitely a resigning tie."

"Good luck dear" Mrs Hudson called from the stairwell. John looked up at the detective, prepared to see anything from Sherlock covered in blood to him clutching a massive bouquet of roses like they were contagious. Ok, perhaps not properly prepared. Sherlock watched as John's face betrayed his amusement.

"Secret admirer Sherlock?"

"Hardly secret, they are for you." He thrust the roses in John's direction without quite making eye contact. John stared at Sherlock hoping that he would take the hint and take two or three steps closer to his chair so that John did not need to get up. Sherlock simply stood there, eyes darting around a John shaped hole in the centre of his vision.

"Was there a note?" John didn't have a current girlfriend but wondered if one of his old ones still held a flame for him. Perhaps someone thought it was Sherlock and his anniversary or something. Unfortunately that seemed far more likely. None of his relationships had ended well. Sherlock shook his head as John took the flowers from his arms. The whole situation seemed awkward but anonymous bouquets of plant genitals were not that unusual.

"Come on then, who are they from? I'm not guessing, wow me with your deductions instead." John looked in vain for some sort of vase and ended up with a two-litre lab beaker. It actually made the bouquet fit into the flat quite well, the white and red roses complimenting his regimental mug, the beaker complimenting the rest of the mess. He vaguely wondered if he had washed it thoroughly enough. Sherlock was silent throughout the entire process. He stood and stared out of the window, not even taking off his coat. He spun around and finally looked back at John.

"They are to say thank you for your cooperation over the next few days."

"Cooperation, with who?" Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and glared at meaningfully.

"I have been reliably informed that they are traditional."

"Traditional for what, Sherlock, what have you done?"

"I bought you flowers."

"Ok, um, thank you, I guess" Sherlock finally made eye contact. "Why?" John's voice was firm. "What am I cooperating with you about?" Perhaps there was another head in fridge, no too mild, Sherlock never brought presents that weren't just replacement kettles or tuperwares. A dead body in bathroom, a dead body in his bed, a dead body no one knew about? John realised he wasn't listening. Traditional. Maybe someone had died? Harry, Mummy Holmes, whoever she was. "It would be a lot easier if you just told me you know."

"I doubt that." His phone rang and Sherlock answered it immediately. The resulting smile that spread across his face told John that he wasn't going to find out for a while. Enigmatic bastard. "Be right there… No we'll take a taxi"

"Finally, it's begun"

John gave the flowers one last sceptical look, grabbed his jacket, and sped after the coat shaped blur.

* * *

Hanging from the light fixture by a purple tie was a man in his early 30s. Dressed smartly in a lilac shirt and chinos, with no shoes or socks. Rigor mortis made him look like an English gentleman Ken doll, all pale and chinless rather than tanned and muscular.

"Boring" John looked at Sherlock, silently agreeing, which worried him somewhat. When did he start to find suicides dull?

Lestrade sighed and gestured towards a dining area at rear of the property. A blonde woman and a child where positioned opposite each other at the dining table, perfectly normal except for the fact that their heads were on the plates in front of them rather than attached to the rest of their bodies. There were blood splatters on the table-cloth but not nearly enough. A putrid smell hung around in the damp July air. John examined the woman's body first.

"Dead over twenty-four hours. Head was removed after death. No other wounds so I would say that they had their throats cut somewhere else and then they were cleaned up and the full head removed."

John couldn't quite look at the little girl. She was around eight, dressed in a pinafore, her hair mousy and her frame slight. He guessed the mother dyed her hair. There weren't any roots showing. John kept looking at the woman, decapitation made her look unreal too. The pretty Notting Hill townhouse with dark Victorian furniture, it really was like a dolls' house, admittedly one with broken dolls.

"Still boring."

Lestrade grimaced and joined John in looking at anything other than the little girl. "They weren't killed in the house, unless they have had it redecorated" Sherlock gave Lestrade a look that communicated exactly what he felt about that suggestion. "They're not his family, Sherlock, we haven't identified them at all. We're waiting on the DNA results but Mr Peter Lintyre doesn't have a wife, or a girlfriend, let alone a child that we can find any records of anyway. Neighbours say he lived alone, left for work 6am for a city law firm returned around 6pm and went drinking at the weekend. Classic city-boy. His Dad, Lord Lintyre, owns the house, well most of the street. The one that made a big fuss over MP expenses…"

"Trivia. They are mother and daughter or possibly aunt and niece but mother and daughter would be far more likely. They were killed at their own house and brought here. You can see the damage to the bodies caused during their transport in a boot of a large car, probably a Land Rover. Must have taken a few hours, you can see the damage to the woman's legs as they were bent round. Eastern European in origin, the clothes have been bought for them but the killer got the wrong size, expensive though. They were compliant so they either knew the killer or were being paid well enough. The woman's hair has been done in a saloon to cover up her own packet dyed hair. I imagine it was near her home. Conclusion, someone wanted Mr Lintyre to have the perfect family to die to with."

"Not Mr Lintyre himself then?" Anderson appeared round the French doors that cut off the living room from the dining area.

"Anderson even you must be aware that Mr Lintyre was long dead before the bodies even arrived." Sherlock's drawl still showing nothing but boredom.

"He could have paid for this though. For the fame, or the shame brought on his father, or for some sort sick afterlife cult thing."

"Why, why, why must look but not observe. Mr Lintyre no more wanted to be hanging from that light fixture than these two wanted to be at this table. As for the identity of the females, the information I've given you should be enough. Few people illegally emigrate with older children so there will be a record of them in some system, even if it's just the child's birth. It's a personal grudge. Interview his school friends, colleagues. Someone did pay the…." Sherlock positioned himself so he could view the woman's wrist, "…Polish mafia for this so shouldn't be too hard find a person missing substantial capital. "

"Well we can start with you then Sherlock" Lestrade stated straight-faced.

John gaped, "you went to, um, school with Mr Lintyre, Sherlock?" Even though John was used to it, Sherlock's calm response to the death of acquaintances was disquieting. At least it was comforting to know that Sherlock would care if John died, considering his response to Moriaty's threats. The comfort sat heavy in his stomach, _a bit not good John_, he thought.

"We were in the same year at Harrow. I remember little of him. Average. He loved boasting about his father. Boring, even in death, boring."

"We are going to go round up his friends then, which I guess will, well, know you too. You even went to same Oxford college."

"Urgh, deleted."

"No further information or suspects?" Lestrade looked hopeful.

"Provide me a list and I'll narrow it down to three or four interviews. He was boring in a particularly obnoxious way." Sherlock gave Anderson a pointed look.

* * *

"Not the murder you were expecting?" John asked Sherlock as he watched the overdue rain trickle down the taxi window.

"No, boring"

"Who _were _you expecting, or what, or well..."

"Right person, John, but so boring."

"With the family scene, fake murder-suicide, Polish mafia…" John would have preferred Sherlock's mood to pick up. Perhaps this is what he meant by the flowers. '_Sorry John, I am going to be particularly insufferable for the near future._' Not particularly traditional.

"No I knew Peter Lintyre was murdered, I just expected it to be in a more interesting manner. So disappointing. I imagine the police will miss the motive entirely with this set up."

John gave Sherlock a look "why didn't you tell them it then?"

"That wasn't the point." Sherlock went back to starring at the window. _The flowers, the murdered school… fellow pupil. Sherlock would never do something so obvious as to pay…_ Sherlock looked back at John. "I find even your briefest moments of doubt quite insulting. How could _you_ think that I could be that dull?" John laughed awkwardly but Sherlock continued. "It's the flowers. I told… I knew they were a waste of time."

"They might not be if you tell me what they were for."

"That wasn't the point." Sherlock looked away again but John knew that he was a little happier. He had no idea why though.

Lestrade turned up the next day with a thick wad of paper. "Quite the sociable bastard" he announced to the flat in general.

"Put it over there. John with me." Sherlock ushered both John and the detective inspector out of the door.

"Right well text when you've narrowed the list down. We'll start with his drinking buddies whilst you get going." Lestrade looked Sherlock up and down, as if trying to estimate the probably that he would do anything at all. John was still putting on his coat when Sherlock shoved him into a taxi, leaving Lestrade alone on Baker Street.

John opened his mouth, closed it and then tried again. "Are we going anywhere in particular?"

"Oh, Jerman Street. We need black tie. Don't worry I sent you measurements in advance so this is merely the final fitting. In fact we should be able to take it all home with us, since it is Mycroft's tailor."

One set of formal evening wear, three suits Sherlock wouldn't let John know the price of, and a wardrobe of shirts, ties and cufflinks and they finally went home. Sherlock had ignored or deflected every question of John's. So far his best guess was that he was going to meet Sherlock's mother or possibly attend some state dinner thing to repay Mycroft for some sort of unsavoury favour. Both concepts made John shudder.

* * *

Thankfully John found out he was mistaken and later that evening they stood at the edge of a ballroom, sipping champagne, whilst trying to look interested in one of the art-works for auction later. It was an eerie portrait of girl in red wellingtons and a yellow raincoat with oddly dead eyes. Perhaps it was the fact that she was around eight years old, John thought, rather than any particular skill of the painter that gave her that characteristic.

Sherlock had meandered through the crowd to find "someone from the Gray Foundation" which a quick google had told John that it was a charity that gave scholarships to poor boarding school applicants. Sure enough Sherlock had returned with a gentleman who looked like he was doing what he was born to do. Introduce people to people at charity events. Sherlock began to speak but the man was too fast.

"Ah the distinguished Dr Watson. My good fellow, it's great to meet you. Percy Rouke. Shirley's been telling me all about you but of course I read most of it on your blog. What an exciting life, ay old chap."

His antiquated speech still seemed a little odd even so the man appeared to be in his 60s, John guessed, but he imagined that he wanted to act fatherly. Perhaps he was the same age as Sherlock's father, maybe even friends with him. John was aware that Sherlock's father was dead, and had been for some time, but had no idea if Lord Holmes was anymore likely to have friends that his sons. Shirley didn't seem like a nickname Sherlock approves of but you can never tell with family. John smiled and echoed the reply he gave to Mycroft so long ago.

"I'm never bored."

"Quite right, well, from what Shirley's been saying it all sounds in order. I can't quite get my head round why you don't go public. I mean, most of the public already have their suspicions, and it's not like you are incredibly private souls. Mostly this…route is taken by politicians or those with important family to keep ignorant. Not two young men who already share a flat and with Dr Watson's sister..." John stumbled. _His sister what? How on earth to reply to that?_ Sherlock gave a thin smile.

"It's the media that we wish to avoid. We wish to find a way to celebrate but in house, with friends. It's a compromise yes, but well, it's harder to find who to pay…attention to… in order to keep such official things quiet. Then there's mummy." Sherlock mumbled the last part.

"Ah yes never a scarlet lady, your mother." Mr Rouke adjusted his sleeve. _What was Sherlock suggesting celebrating? Flowers. Oh the flowers._ John's thoughts ran at a hundred miles an hour. "Your brother will find out of course."

"He will be invited as would a few select friends. There are other parties who would be interested in our lives that might want to make the event go with more a bang."

"Ah yes, you have enemies, peculiar boy. Rather a special lifestyle choice. Still perhaps they are better than friends. Right well, this has been in the works for a while. It was nice to finally meet you Dr Watson. I look forward to your support of the Gray Foundation on Sunday. Congratulations." Mr Rouke returned to the throng of people in the centre of the room and merged with other penguins.

"Sherlock." The man in question turned and gave a huge smile. John had previously only seen this smile when the detective had found out about particularly exciting murders. It was unsettling to be on the receiving end.

"Well Dr Watson, I bought you flowers, now may I ask you to dance?"

"Sherlock" John's voice became high pitched. "What are you suggesting exactly? What is all this" he gestured to the ballroom "exactly about?"

"Maybe it might be best if we discussed this at home. Only there are a few more people we should meet first, and that involves stepping on the dance floor. So Dr Watson, may I have this dance?"

John sighed. "This is to do with the case. These people, they went to school with you, they know your parents, yes? They knew Peter Lintyre and you knew he was dead before the police. Someone in this Gray Foundation told you? Asked you to investigate. You've been planning this 'for sometime' so he was being threatened?"

"Yes John, they knew all about Peter Lintyre. Although they didn't hire me, rather I hired them as did Peter. I really did mean to thank you for your cooperation. I could not do this without my blogger" They stepped into the centre of the room. A waltz was playing, John didn't recognise it, but Sherlock certainly did. Sherlock positioned John's hands one on his shoulder and then other clasped in his whilst sliding his free arm round John's back. John leant into the hold relaxing slightly. Sherlock was a good dancer despite his gangly frame. _Not completely unexpected considering all the jumping, fencing, and running he got up to,_ John mused.

"Let me know if I'll have to kill anyone, ok Sherlock?" Sherlock smiled that frighteningly wide smile.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to do much more than that John." He leant forward so that he could whisper in John's ear. Gripping the man tighter he took a deep breadth, "I'm going to ask you to marry me."

* * *

**A/N: **This is my first fanfiction so please review - all criticism welcomed! I am vaguely aware I should promise you virtual cookies but I don't think that I could deliver them. This will be a multi-chapter fic with more M rating shenanigans later. Thanks for reading!

PS: I am aware that the English spelling is grey but I'm using it as the last name rather than the colour.


	2. Chapter 2: Family Concerns

Disclaimer: I own no characters; any similarity to real events or people is accidental.

Thank you so much for reading, following and favouriting and special thanks to elyoko11 for reviewing.

**Chapter 2: Family Concerns**

* * *

"Marry, Sherlock, why on earth would we need to do that?" Sherlock gripped John even tighter. The waltz continued and Sherlock spun John round again. The action turned John's stomach in more ways than one. _You lead and I follow _he thought.

"Because it is what Peter Lintyre did, and Samuel Gosphor."

"Who is Samuel Gosphor?"_ He's been keeping secrets, dangerous secrets, but more importantly he's been manipulating me. He's treating me like Molly. What does he think I'll do? Swoon and say, "Thank you very much. It's an honour to give up any chance of dating again just to crack a case." I guess if he's married to his work, marrying for his work doesn't seem that illogical. Is there more to this? Does he just want me off the market, free to follow him at a moments notice? It's like I'm joining a violent monastic order that solves crimes. _John looked up into Sherlock's eyes as he imagined them posed ready to fight, cassocks swirling in the wind. _How odd - he looks unsettled almost afraid,_ John mused, _of my reaction?_

"Samuel was Peter's husband. Not officially but to those that knew them they were married." Sherlock didn't break eye contact as he spun them around the dance floor.

"Isn't that just living together, or dating, even?"

"There was a ceremony, and there is a register. There are divorce proceedings and a rather exhaustive list of rules. I'll give you a copy to read at home."

"I still haven't agreed, Sherlock, it's a pretty big ask."

"Even if I buy you flowers?" He cracked half a smile. It still didn't reach his eyes.

"Especially if you buy me flowers."

The waltz came to an end and another began. This one was more familiar to John, perhaps something by Mozart.

"We wouldn't have to tell anyone important. It's the easiest way into their inner circle."

"Apart from your brother." The idea of Mycroft as 'no one important' made John chuckle slightly. "This situation is absurd. How long have you been planning this? Why didn't you tell me sooner? Sunday Sherlock! That's four days. We're getting married in four days!"

"Excellent, you agree then." The frightening smile returned in full force. Sherlock rested his head forehead on John's and closed his eyes. John was caught like poor little luminescent Bluebell. He squeezed his eyes closed and took a deep breadth.

"Look lets finish talking to the Peter's friends and then discuss this at home. I want to know what's going on Sherlock."

"Excellent, I believe I suggested this exact course of action earlier."

John sighed again, "Promise that you'll tell me everything."

"I'll try John, but I don't think that you want to know everything. For example, would you like to know how often Peter and Samuel had sex?"

"Stop trying to get a rise out of me Sherlock, you've been playing with me all day."

Sherlock's face creased in concern. "I'm not playing."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you. Let's just get this over with." Sherlock broke their dance and walked steadily to another corner of the ornate room.

* * *

They joined the outside of a small circle of men in their late 30s. Sherlock made eye contact with the tallest one whose dark hair was slightly thinning. His outfit looked more worn than the others, but with this sort of person John found it impossible to tell whether that was an indication of good or bad fortune.

"Mr Langford, may I introduce my good friend Dr John Watson." Sherlock smiled a decidedly fake smile that Mr Langford seemed to mentally note down. He let the pause go linger just past comfortable.

"Yes, you can _Mr Holmes_, though I would have thought after all those soirees of mother's you could at least call me Henry." John grimaced slightly at 'Henry's' sharp tone. Familiarity seemed to be the last thing he wanted, it was almost threatening. John began to feel like he had turned up at an exam without having done any of the background reading.

"Oh my, that was a long time ago. Did you continue your polo career or is it just the cricket now?" Henry's eyebrows moved up ever so slightly and John wondered what terrible event Sherlock was referencing.

"I have always enjoyed fine sportsmanship. I don't imagine that you have developed an interest in either Sherlock."

"No, but my brother insists on keeping an eye on the cricket. Terribly dull."

"Well, if you can count on anything it's the younger Holmes capacity to be bored by the noblest of pursuits, which makes me wonder, Shirley, what is so interesting about all this?" He made the smallest of gestures to the crowd behind them but locked eyes with John. John flinched at the glare.

"It is the details that make something remarkable, Mr Langford, someone of your intelligence can't possibly be expected to appreciate that of course. I rather think that Mr Greene here would agree with me, when I say that true nobility is an attractive feature." Sherlock smiled again and gestured to the shorter man standing next to John. He had his eyebrows under far less control; they shot up at mention of his name and had yet to come down from his forehead. John found the whole discourse unsettling not just because of the icy atmosphere, but because of Sherlock's Mycroft impersonation. 'Normal' Sherlock would have stated Mr Langford's crimes straight out, just after the introductions, and responded to the jibes with further insulting observations. He was playing their game, and probably hating it. _Are these people that important to Sherlock, or to the case? _John mentally corrected. Mr Greene jumped into the silence that had begun to linger between Sherlock and Mr Langford.

"Terrible shame about Peter, Mr Holmes. I am sure he would have been pleased to know that you are helping out our boys in blue."

"The police do have a tendency to trample over delicate matters." A third gentleman joined in, his tone pleasant.

"Shirley tends to make even clumsier footfalls. Or have you finally grown up? So far you've been positively pleasant. Your brother threatening you with the mad house again or are you just trying to impress Dr Watson with your breeding, be what it may?" Mr Langford smiled thinly.

"I merely wish to observe Henry. Don't worry; you won't be next, third is a position that has always suited you. What daddy never knows won't hurt him but I do wonder how long you will take to choose. Blood is so much thicker than water."

"Now, now, Shirley, everyone knows you enjoy a good puzzle. I would hate to think what your mother would say if she thought you were taking a more active role in your hobby. Why don't you go and announce someone's affair or something. Always delightful entertainment."

"I'm only here to announce my own affairs. If this visit had not been necessary I would never have sullied my brain with such inane chatter. I have never been petty." The rest of the group made an effort to look away from the pair as John repressed a snigger. He thought back to the effort Sherlock had put into reordering the vials in Anderson's forensic kit.

"Please, your visit is entirely unnecessary. Your public role doesn't require it and I am family, Shirley, I have had the pleasure of many charming conversations with Aunt Sylvia over the years. I know that she would be nothing but pleased that you were finally showing signs of being human." The rest of the group had been furtively searching for an exit from the awkward conversation for the last ten minutes, but now they looked like they would bolt at the slightest chance. John struggled to picture Sherlock with an extended family. Imagine the Christmas dinners indeed.

"Please drop the term of endearment, you are not my cousin Henry, and mummy would not like the insinuation. Certainly not in a few weeks anyway." Sherlock's words were biting and he sounded upset. John wondered what childhood had been like for Sherlock. Terribly lonely sprung to mind.

"Give my love to Mycroft, Shirley. Tell him I am impressed that he has finally brought his dog to heel. Love is such a complex emotion, but I never thought that you would know its charms."

"Oh, thine blind fool, love." The third man interjected with an awkward chuckle. "Family can complicate matters of the heart but it's all been in the works for too long to be connected to Peter, Henry, so let your suspicions rest for now. 'Look to your house' might be the better quote, ay Luke." He smiled at Mr Greene again. "Luke is directing this years Royal Shakespeare Company's Othello production. Do you like Shakespeare Dr Watson? I'll pass some tickets onto Sherlock anyway, it must be nice to take a break from your more gruesome exploits."

"Yes, the RSC, very impressive." John racked his mind for something more to say on the matter. "Is the play on in Stratford or London?"

"Starts in London next week." 'Luke' Greene sounded unsure; John began to wonder if he 'belonged' here about as much as he did.

"Splendid. Good evening gentlemen." Henry cast a disdainful look at the entire group and marched off in the direction of the art works.

"John and I will take our leave as well. Goodnight gentlemen." John was somewhat surprised that Sherlock didn't just walk away and leave John to mumble about Shakespeare for another ten minutes.

"Have a pleasant Sunday." The third man replied. John realised that he had never been introduced. The man held out his hand, and John shook it, vaguely hoping that he wasn't someone so famous that he never felt the need for introductions. He was slightly familiar, perhaps someone in government?

* * *

John itemised what he knew in the taxi home. It was clear that Sherlock was not going to explain anything until they reached 221B.

_There was some sort of secret society that married important people, gay people, surreptitiously so that the media and their families never had to know. Its public face was some sort of private school scholarship fund. The Percy fellow was high up in the society. There was something about that whole conversation that had felt like an appraisal meeting._

_Peter Lintyre was in it and was married but didn't live with his husband as his neighbours said he lived alone. Was he very discrete? Perhaps he didn't work as long hours as he claimed to?_

_Was Henry Langford in it? Or was he just an obnoxious distant Holmes relative that had taunted Sherlock as a boy? He clearly knew about it but perhaps the right sort of people did. No, that didn't make sense to John, otherwise family members would find out very easily. So Henry was married too or perhaps had been?_ Sherlock's favourite litany about making assumptions before considering all the facts played in John's head.

_The man who quoted Shakespeare was also high up in the organisation. He had known that the plans for… Sherlock and John's wedding_, the thought made John wheeze slightly, _had been made some time ago, before Peter's murder. Which also made John worry. How long ago must have Peter Lintyre been threatened to allow Sherlock to make their… plans… look normal? How much notice to give for a secret wedding? You hardly needed to send out save the date cards._

And then there was the Mycroft business. John had no idea what to make of that. However, he had even less of an idea about how he felt about what he was beginning to mentally refer to as 'The Wedding.' He felt betrayed, but it was hard to maintain ill feeling when he knew that Sherlock thought that it was just a temporary inconvenience. To Sherlock 'The Wedding' was their way into a society who members were killing and/or being killed. Sherlock had hinted that there would be further murders and John almost hoped there were – just to make the sacrifice worth it. That thought made him feel quite ill; he was spending far too much time with the sociopath.

_The main trouble,_ John mused_, was that it could just be a temporary inconvenience. Mycroft would spot the lie straight away; it was going to be secret and unofficial so there was nothing to stop John marrying some girl in future. John believed in the concept of marriage too much. It was one of the reasons he avoided Harry – Clara, her wife, had deserved better. John was aware that Sherlock must have known about his values. The flowers had probably been for his 'cooperation' in putting his moral misgivings aside._

* * *

Once they were in the front door, John went straight to the kettle and Sherlock to his chair. He sat in silence until John joined him mug in hand.

"I suppose your first question is 'how long have I been planning this?' even so it is not relevant at all." John took a sip of the calming liquid

"It would be a nice start." John met Sherlock's gaze and waited.

"I received an email from a school acquaintance around two months ago. It detailed that his position was threatened and he theorised it was either due to a greater political agenda or the result of in-house bickering in this secret society. He claimed that the positions and lives of other members would come under threat too in the next few months but that the society must remain secret."

"So you accepted the case? Doesn't sound like you."

"It had the markings of something particularly exciting. Plus it seemed oddly personal, like it was designed to remind me of my youth."

"Oh, Sherlock, not again." John gave a stern look. Personal case for Mr Holmes, all bodies delivered with neat little mysteries. It had a familiar taste.

"Yes, I suspect that _he _might be involved but only obliquely. Peter's murder was too dull. I thought he was going to take a more active role." Sherlock sounded disappointed and John felt his anger rise. He took a calming breadth and sipped his tea.

"So it's like the study in pink, the cab driver, sponsored crimes?"

"Perhaps it is someone else entirely."

"You are not expecting anyone to be strapped to a bomb then?" John was tense, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his mug tighter.

"Oh no John, I never expect Moriarty to repeat himself." He paused remembering their last encounter with the psychopath, "Perhaps not repeat himself that obviously. No, if this is Moriarty it's a just a job rather than a personal attack."

"So on Sunday, you and I, we're going to…" John took a big gulp of tea, knuckles still white, Sherlock watched him intently and John wondered if it might be easier for Sherlock to just pretend to be bloody psychic. "And you are not expecting_ his _involvement?"

"Well, I don't think he will award the event any significance. He knows it is just for the case after all." John took another calming breadth and decided to not think about his feelings about that statement. He was a soldier, this was a mission, and he can deal with the emotional after effects when he knew what was going on. "I've invited Mycroft John, I am sure we will be perfectly safe. Now I answered your questions and I will tell you more tomorrow. I need to think."

Sherlock steepled his hands beneath his nose and closed his eyes. John looked back at the man as he entered his mind palace. Brilliant but infuriating, that was Sherlock Holmes all right, apparently the man he was going to marry. He counted to ten, let out a breadth he didn't know he was holding, and placed the mug back on the side-table. He glanced up the bouquet that mocked him from the mantelpiece. He should have known that Sherlock would only tell him the bare minimum.

Sherlock was his life; John was all too aware that all other relationships that he had tried to mantain had been snuffed-out by his willingness to drop everything at Sherlock's bequest. He spoke of no one else, he had killed for the man, and he knew that if Sherlock somehow found another sap to do his bidding John would hate it. Irene Adler had known that before John did. What did he hate most about the situation? The fact that marriage meant too much to throw away, or that marrying Sherlock meant too much? John stretched, shook his head, and headed up to bed. It would make more sense in the morning.

* * *

"You are still angry with me." Sherlock made the statement without moving. He looked like he hadn't moved all night. John placed the kettle back on its base and spun round to look at the detective. Morning sunbeams snuck through the gap in the curtains and framed his face. There was no denying his attractiveness; if you were into tall, dark, handsome gits who insulted everyone they met.

"Did you expect me to be pleased?" Sherlock's face contorted into a look of derision. It was his 'John are are being too obtuse, even for you' face.

"No, I expected you to be resigned, at least by this point."

"As far as I am concerned I have three days of legitimate anger left. You said there was paper work to read?" Sherlock gestured to a blue folder on the desk.

"I am thankful John, there really is no better way to break this case." Sherlock looked a little hopeful, "My role in this will decrease the number of deaths overall so there are clear moral motivations."

"Decrease but not stop?" John ignored the little voice that pointed out that he was being emotionally blackmailed by a sociopath.

"No, I am expecting another call this afternoon." _Well at least he keeps saying thank you,_ John thought. _I guess that is quite rare, normally I have to kill someone first._

John picked up the folder, and gave it a flick through. 'Marriage is a lifelong commitment…' "Have you read this?"

"Yes, I have determined the best course of action. With your permission we should invite either Detective Inspector Lestrade or Mrs Hudson. We need two witnesses. Of course, I would prefer if we invited both of them, it would seem more realistic. You can invite Harry if necessary though I anticipate that you would rather not have to explain why you are keeping our marriage secret." John gasped slightly at 'our marriage.' "I hope you manage to look less shocked by Sunday, you are going to need to be able to talk about the wedding with the guests. The registrar will be from the society. I am hoping for Lord Kilburn." Sherlock noticed John's blank look hadn't changed to one of recognition. "The man with the chalk dusk on his shoes? The one who had just shaved off his moustache? The one who offered you those Shakespeare tickets?"

John did his best fish imitation, not quite knowing what to answer first. "I thought you said no one important had to know."

"Lestrade it is then."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading. I was wondering if people would prefer shorter chapters? It will not speed up my update rate, as I need to check through and make sure the characters are being consistent with their responses.

I prefer reading huge chapters as I load them on my phone, and if I lose signal on a train or tube I prefer to have as much to read as possible. I understand that people like to be able to read a little and then return to where they were easily though. Let me know in a review!

I'm afraid this is going to be quite long. I'm already on 12,000 words and I haven't even made it to Sunday. I would also love to know if you like hearing John's summaries of the available facts or if you would prefer to work out as much as my writing has conveyed in the dialogue scenes and wait another chapter or three to hear Sherlock's deductions. I can't work out if putting them in is just lazy authorship (It's much easier to point important facts and deal with John's emotions) or if they add to the story and give John a more active role, or may be something else entirely.


	3. Chapter 3: Book of Judges

The statue I refer to can be seen here on the Victoria and Albert Museum website. I was going to upload it as an image but then realised that A. it's quite a provocative marble statue, and B. Although says all images are free to use I was unsure that they would approve. I couldn't put the link here but please google:

**giambologna-samson-and-a-philistine victoria and albert**

Thank you for reading, favouriting, following and special thanks to the guest user and Foxyfiona for reviewing. This chapter is even longer.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

**Chapter Three: Book of Judges**

John looked at the door, half expecting the detective inspector to bound up the stairs and announce another murder there and then.

"Mrs Hudson already knows, doesn't she?"

Sherlock positively beamed, "I do love it when you surprise me, John."

"She knew before I did." Sherlock didn't reply. John sat down to read the contents of blue folder thoroughly. 'Although not legally binding…'

* * *

It was two hours and thirty-four minutes before Lestrade arrived with Sherlock's predicted murder. John had finished the majority of the guidelines and his anger had settled into a feeling of disquiet that sat near his abdomen. He wondered if he could locate which part of his anatomy that was taking the strain, the gall bladder perhaps? It was not a feeling a resignation, however, John made sure of that.

"Mr Gosphor, Lestrade?" Sherlock announced as the detective opened the door.

"How did you… never mind" Sherlock smiled at John who lifted an eyebrow in return. Sherlock was going to have work harder for his compliments over the next few days, of that John was sure, perhaps he would throw away some of the more smelly body parts in the fridge too. Lestrade looked slightly puzzled by this interaction but continued, "He was found this morning. Gruesome set up Sherlock, hopefully you won't find this one too boring."

They entered the Victoria and Albert Museum and were led up to the _Medieval and Renaissance_ gallery.

"Samson Slaying a Philistine by Giambologna. From Florence, 1500s." Lestrade announced as Sherlock and John examined the bodies. They were artfully arranged in front of the plinth by wires attached to hooks on the skin and the gallery ceiling. The men were held so that their bodies replicated the statue. One man straddled the other, a large animal jawbone held aloft in one hand, the second man's hair in the other. They were naked, cold, and pale, like the marble.

"Yes, we can read the plaque Lestrade. Quiet, stop thinking, Anderson go away."

"It's from the book of Judges. 'And he found a new jawbone of an ass, and put forth his hand and took it and slew a thousand men therewith.'" Anderson injected anyway. Sherlock's glare was murderous. "John, you can begin."

"They've been frozen. Can't give you an accurate time of death. Over 24 hours, it would have taken sometime to freeze the bodies. The hooks were applied after death, but before the freezing. You can see the frost damage and the livor mortis. No obvious damage or impact wounds. I would say the heart was stopped directly with some sort of poison or drug." John bent down to floor. "Oh, and the second man has been glued in place, similar cause of death. Who is who?" John looked expectantly at Sherlock.

"Samson," he indicated the standing figure, "is Mr Samuel Gosphor, who even you would have discovered by now was Mr Peter Lintyre's favourite drinking partner and a barrister. They often holidayed together. I believe Peter had a yacht, not a large one, but one that you would have to crew yourself. They last went on holiday only a week ago. Sardinia. It explains the damage to his and Mr Lintyre's fingernails. The second gentleman is irrelevant. He is technically a philistine, however, I believe they went to some effort to find an immigrant from Gaza who was pale enough. The murderers are hired professionals with Israeli connections who believed this was a political message."

"It isn't political then?" Lestrade looked at the victims' contorted positions. He hoped that the statue had not been carved from 'life.'

"What is it like in your stupid little brains? Mr Gosphor was your number one suspect for the Lintyre case, yes? Missing a large amount of money, missing in general, plane tickets to Ecuador. You were in the process of trying to see if you could get him back?"

"We had begun enquires with Interpol…"

"Well, evidently he never left. No doubt once the time of death is determined you will find that Mr Gosphor and Lintyre died within a few hours. Different methods were used to kill them, and different groups were hired to carry out the deed but the order was given by one man."

"Why didn't you tell us not to bother… never mind… so what's the real motivation then?"

"Love, or rather jealousy."

"The green-eyed monster, eh Sherlock. Doesn't exactly narrow it down. We'll take leads on either the executioners or the man who ordered this, Sherlock. You still haven't given us anything concrete on Mr Lintyre."

"Fine, they wiped CCTV for the whole of last-night, I presume?"

"All of the security guards were tied up by balaclava-wearing, heavy-set men as far as we can work out around six of them in total. The cameras were taken out remotely. Some sort of electronic scrambling device took out the whole building. The lights are still blown. They wired some sort of dummy device into the alarm system that kept contact with the outside. It all looks very professional, almost government level, the crime doesn't seem worth the effort. Why not just do this in a warehouse somewhere and write 'Samson Slaying a Philistine' on the ground? It would have the same media impact."

"Ah, but then there wouldn't be the fear, Lestrade, and the fear is important. If they can get into protected institutions like the V&A then how are we safe in our homes. Figurative of course, no one is really safe. They both arrived and escaped through the tunnels. Imperial College exit most likely, but they could have come out through the Old Brompton tube station. You can check the exit point CCTV but I imagine they were still in full disguise."

"Tunnels?"

"Yes, underneath all of this area. Some connect to the university, some to the tube, some to the MoD barracks. Mycroft's underlings have great fun scaring the yearly troop of students who trespass into the Ministry of Defense. Stupid. There are so many ways to do so undetected. Anyway they are used by contractors to deliver items to the museums and so forth, and only guarded by an electronic lock and a few cameras."

"Wouldn't someone have noticed a gang of balaclava wearing men wondering around South Kensington? Even if it is just 15 minutes walk to the embassy…"

"Careful Lestrade, I wouldn't want _you_ starting a political incident. Despite the level of technology I doubt these were official government agents. This morning there was a protest on Princes Gate, outside the Iranian embassy. People were wearing Ahmadinejad masks. Find out who supplied them and you'll be one step closer to finding our killers' master." John wondered how Sherlock knew about Ahmadinejad when he didn't know who the prime minister was. John guessed that it must have been specific research for this case, or that he had left news twenty-four on the TV and Sherlock hadn't deleted it yet.

"Ok, Sherlock, but that won't be enough to arrest anyone."

"More data. I know whom they plan to attack next but not when. I imagine an armed police guard would slow our man down, or at least encourage him to make mistakes. Oh, John and I were wondering if you could come here on Sunday?" Sherlock gave Lestrade a folded post-it note.

"Sunday, yes, is this for the case?" John groaned, it was actually happening.

"The next target is a Mr Henry Langford. Insufferable prat. Has a house near here. 33 Palace Gardens Terrace. Go be police."

"Do I get the privilege of knowing how you know that Sherlock?"

"John is withholding all praise from me at the moment." Lestrade looked back at John who was examining the original Samson, the marble, rather than flesh and blood version.

"Right, well, I could…"

"It wouldn't be the same." Lestrade looked John up and down, and quirked an eyebrow.

"Well, I guess, John does have a special way with words." Somewhere in background John swore he could hear Sgt. Donovan snigger.

"Sunday, Lestrade, Sgt. Donovan you must really enjoy cleaning floors to do it holiday." Sherlock turned so he could look at both John and Lestrade. "Six days, Barcelona. She met a young lawyer there but it didn't work out. He did buy her a necklace but it's not worth as much as he insinuated. Didn't tell Anderson about it but it's not like he can take the moral high ground when it comes to infidelity." As far as John could see he hadn't even looked in her direction. He stifled the need to tell Sherlock he was brilliant but only just and received a knowing smile in return. He sighed, there was no winning when it came to Sherlock Holmes. The detective turned sharply so his coat billowed and swept towards the front exit, leaving John to hurry behind him.

* * *

Mycroft was sitting in John's chair when they arrived home. He didn't look comfortable, but then John couldn't imagine that Mycroft had ever looked relaxed.

"I hear you are going to make an honest man of my brother, John." Mycroft smiled. John spluttered slightly at the mental change of gear. The taxi journey had been silent with neither party wishing to engage the other in conversation.

"Shall I make a pot of tea? Tea, Mycroft?"

"Already done, dears" Mrs Hudson appeared from the stairwell, looking happier than John had ever seen her. It would crush her to know it was for a case, he thought, and then checked himself. Did he just consider marrying his male flat-mate properly just so his landlady wouldn't be disappointed? He needed to see a therapist, a good therapist. Mycroft's gaze never left John.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks, I think."

Sherlock flounced into the other chair. "No tea for Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, he is leaving now." Mrs Hudson handed him a cup anyway and gave one to John too. They sat on the sofa together.

"I think it's brilliant. Mrs Turner would be ever so jealous. She's always going on about her married ones. It's a shame you're not telling people, you know, the world's a different place these days. No one would think any less of either of you. In fact, they might think more of Sherlock."

John took another sip of the tea. It was slightly too hot to drink but that didn't matter. Anything was better than trying to explain the situation. Let Sherlock talk his way out it, he started the whole damn process.

"I have had the opportunity to give this much thought John Watson, but finding the most appropriate words for this exact scenario was more complex than I expected. However, when in doubt a cliché is often adequate. Look after my brother, John; he is an idiot, a clever idiot but an idiot. He is also not as immune to the human condition as he would like to believe." He twirled his umbrella between his legs and stared directly at Sherlock. "I hope you know what you are doing, Sherlock, for both of your sakes and perhaps a little for my own. I do not want to find you in the gutter again. Mummy's heart wouldn't take it. " The temperature in the room dropped. "Speaking of mother she _will_ be coming on Sunday. This is rather more important than graduation, Sherlock." John observed the Holmes's staring competition and took another sip of tea. Finally it was the right temperature. Mrs Hudson broke the silence.

"That will be nice. The whole family coming together, is your sister coming John?"

John was still waiting to see who would win; his money was on Mycroft. "What, um, no, she's not very good at secrets."

"That's a shame. You should meet up with her though, beforehand, it's terrible to keep secrets in a family. Has she met Sherlock?"

John gulped, trying to imagine them meeting. She would be so smug, considering the situation, and well Sherlock is always smug. It would be insufferable. "I don't think that's for the best. She has a tendency to say hateful things and she doesn't like people hiding who they are from the world. She, um, wouldn't understand." John grimaced inside. He was well aware at how weak an excuse that had been. He was sure he saw Mycroft lift his left eyebrow slightly, but neither of the Holmes's had blinked.

"How different the two of you must be. I can't imagine that she would be able to hurt Sherlock, John. He's quite thick skinned. If you like you can have her round to my flat, if you think she would worry about the mess. I'll make cake; in fact we could have a little party, just the four of us. You can decide whether you want to let her know there and then." John gaped slightly.

"I couldn't ask you to go to all that trouble, Mrs Hudson."

"Nonsense. In fact," she waved John's phone in his face, "you should do it now."

"Sherlock is in the middle of case, he won't want to take anytime away from it."

"You don't mind, do you dearie, given the occasion. It will only be a few hours. Plus you taking time to have this get together with your brother, so it's only proper." Sherlock nodded without moving his eyes from Mycroft's. John wondered if they were blinking at the same time as him, just to unnerve him.

"That's settled then, tomorrow at 6pm. Ring your sister now John, it's best to give her as much notice as possible." Defeated, John put down his tea, and took the phone from Mrs Hudson's out stretched hand. The screen had lit up as 'Calling Harry's phone' shone in the centre. He put it to his ear.

"Harry, it's me John."

"John, haven't heard from you in ages. I think the last time was because someone had failed to blow you up! Are you alright, not dying again?" Harry's tinny worried chuckle filled the silent room, even with the phone not set to speaker, John wondered if Mrs Hudson had turned the volume up.

"I'm fine, Harry, great actually. I've some… good news." Mrs Hudson smiled encouragingly and John took a deep breadth. "Can you come to Baker Street tomorrow? My landlady is having a party for me, well us… can you make it?"

For once John was pleased that Harry sounded slightly tipsy. A sober Harry might be more likely to work out what was meant to be going on and like the proverbial dog, once she grabbed hold of an idea she never let go. "It's at 6pm."

"Sounds lovely, I would like to hear some good news. We can catch up, maybe I've got some good news too." John doubted her good news included a 12-step program.

"See you then, 221A is the flat, ring the doorbell when you arrive." They both said their goodbyes and John put the phone next to his, now cold, cup of tea.

"See that wasn't hard." Mrs Hudson smiled and turned to address the Holmes brothers. "That is enough of your silly game. You better be well behaved on Sunday. It's John's special day as well as yours Sherlock, you need to be considerate." Mycroft looked the tinniest bit mollified which made John burst out laughing. _The whole situation is ridiculous_. The laughter rose up from the pit of his stomach. _Gave his gall bladder a break anyway_, he thought, and let out more spasms of laughter.

"You appear to have broken John, Mrs Hudson, I hope you can put him together again." Sherlock looked at John, concern showing in his eyes.

"Oh Sherlock, enough of that." She appeared to look around the room. "Flowers look lovely in here, maybe you should make it a regular thing." John's laughter had turned into the short gasps as tears threatened to fall from his eyes. _It was all so damn silly. _He tried to take big breadths. It was at this point that Sherlock chose to reach out and grasp John's hand. John's eyes went wide and Mrs Hudson smiled even more, if that was possible.

"Time for me to be going, brother, see you on Sunday." Mycroft eyes darted between his brother and John, his expression indifferent. Mrs Hudson stood up to show Mycroft to the door. "Good bye dears. See you tomorrow."

John's breathing had slowed but it was still too quick. John looked at Sherlock, who appeared adorably confused. His hand was stretched out at full length from the chair to the sofa. He squeezed John's hand tightly, reminding John of their Waltzes yesterday. Suddenly he sprung up and went to sit in Mrs Hudson's spot on the sofa. John leant back; Sherlock still hadn't let go of his hand.

"I am…"

"If you say thankful again, Sherlock, I swear I'll..."

"Do what John?"

"I don't know. This is ridiculous, you know that don't you; the whole situation is beyond absurd. I'm expecting to be crushed by a giant foot, or sold a dead parrot any minute." Sherlock turned on the sofa so that he could look into John's eyes. He still seemed more worried than confused.

"I don't think that purveyors of deceased birds are particularly common." John let out something that could only be called a giggle.

"Is Monty Python something you have deleted or just never seen? I guess there's no way to tell."

"I think I should apologise, John, the way I've gone about arranging this has not been… fair." John snorted another little laugh.

"Fair is not a word I'd use to describe arranging our marriage behind my back." _'Our marriage' was now something he could say without feeling dread, was there anything he wouldn't do for this man?_ John stared into those grey eyes, and the answer to his question stared back at him.

"Are you going to apologise then?" Sherlock's lips turned up at the corners.

"I, Sherlock Holmes, do here apologise to Dr. John Watson for deceiving him about our marriage."

"Not for arranging our marriage in the first place?" Sherlock squirmed slightly. It was odd to imagine a grown man that could squirm quite as well as Sherlock; it was like his whole body went limp.

"Do I need to apologise for that John?" He had leant forward slightly, still gripping John's hand. He gulped as his eyes followed his Adams apple.

"No, I guess not." John's voice had risen in pitch.

"Well now my brother has said his piece, I should return to the work." Sherlock still hadn't moved. "Do you have anymore questions John?"

"Plenty." _Like why am I wondering what it would be like to kiss you, you lanky git,_ "but maybe I should ask them tomorrow?" _When you are not distracting me by placing your lips two inches from my face_. Kissing was a dangerous topic. Sherlock was marrying him for his work, John needed to not get too confused, he didn't want this as much as subconsciously licked his lipsand Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. A traitorous inner voice that sounded a little too much like Mrs Hudson pointed out that not wanting it as much as Sherlock right now was tantamount to pushing Sherlock down and kissing him senseless. 'You could shut him up whenever you wanted' the little voice continued.

"You read the guidelines so you know that it will follow the broad outlines of a standard wedding ceremony." John nodded, Sherlock still hadn't moved.

"Then you know at the end we will be expected to kiss." John froze; he swore that traitorous little voice was sniggering. Sherlock moved a perceptible amount closer. "In order to make it look realistic in front of the registrar we should practice. Otherwise you are going to look far too afraid." John still didn't move. Sherlock changed the angle of his body slightly and brought his other hand up to John's shoulder. Something inside John broke, _in for a penny, in for a pound_; he launched himself at Sherlock, slamming into his rigid body. It took a moment for Sherlock to relax and let his eyes close. He opened his mouth a tiny amount and brought his hand up to the back of John's head using the leverage to change the angle of the kiss. John smacked his lips and then opened his mouth too. The kiss evolved from a messy teenage snog, all teeth and salvia, into something soft, sensual and all together more grown up. Sherlock pulled John's hair slightly and John finally slid an arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock growled and pressed his body against John's in response, crushing their clasped hands. Eventually their position was too uncomfortable to maintain. John drew back, their foreheads resting on each other's and gave their arms room to pump blood to their hands again.

"Fuck," John eyed Sherlock's bright red lips, "Fuck."

"Eloquent, John" Sherlock smiled. "I think we will have to tone that down in front of Mycroft." John smiled too. "Would you like to try again?" John didn't get a chance to reply before Sherlock's lips were on his. This time the process was far more natural. Their clasped hands snaked round the other's waists and John moved one hand to Sherlock's curls. They alternated between open mouths and tongues to calm pecks on each other's lips. John's obvious greater experience guiding Sherlock away from making the whole process too wet. As John's mind slowly emptied of anything that wasn't Sherlock's lips, he wondered if it was even possible for Sherlock to do the same.

When they finally pulled apart again, John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Fuck."

"Sherlock, do you even want this?" John spoke into Sherlock's shirt. "You are married to your work, and as far as I've seen have never shown an… interest in anyone. I understood this to be, well, an extension of that role. You were marrying me for the work." John lifted his head and made eye contact again. It was best to talk about these things like adults, in John's experience, hiding and waiting would only cause problems later on. The traitorous voice added that it would also mean a sleepless night of fretting and he was just too old for that. Sexual crisis or not, John was a man, a soldier and a doctor, he faced his problems head on, he didn't ignore them like a stroppy teenager. The voice was sniggering again; John wished he could hit it.

"I believe that there is something about our relationship that is different to any other connection I've managed to form, John. However, this is _truly_ not my area." John chuckled, and stopped himself immediately, one did not laugh through their partner's confession. "I would be interested in, not dissolving our arrangement after the case is over, and in learning about this sort of connection in more detail." Sherlock was breathing in little gasps, John considered what this might mean and glanced at Sherlock's trousers. The man shifted uncomfortably.

"Promise me something Sherlock?" Sherlock nodded. "Promise me that you'll talk to me when you have concerns, that you will tell me what you like and don't like. I'm not going to be able to deduce your emotions for you."

"Certainly John. More kissing?" Sherlock's smile was frighteningly wide again.

"Oh, God yes."

**A/N: ** Finally kissing! Sorry it has taken so long. Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think.


	4. Chapter 4: A Sibling's Gambit

Thank you all so much for reading, following and favouriting! I'm handing out lots of thank-you cookies to Boxerbee, and the guest user for reviewing, and an extra big-box for power0girl, for letting me know what you thought of each chapter. I love the Muppets.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, all rights to Gatiss, Moffat and the BBC. Any similarity to real events or people is not intentional... *cough.*

* * *

**Chapter 4: A Sibling's Gambit**

After another heated kiss and they separated, giving each other one last decidedly awkward hug in the process. John decided that he would read in his room for a while and let Sherlock think in the living-room. He put an order for Chinese in, and the rest of the evening was spent in comparative normality. There was one memorable moment when John fetched Sherlock's phone from his suit jacket pocket and let his hand linger against his chest for far longer than necessary.

John had decided that he would have his sexual crisis after Sunday. At the moment he just wouldn't think about it. He had gone through his entire life previously not considering his feelings towards sexy dark-haired posh gits and he would manage another day. _May be he really was going to join that monastic order,_ he mused again, p_erhaps he should give it a name 'the order of the quilted cassock' sounded pleasing_. He mentally kicked himself for thinking about Sherlock and sex again.

Saturday morning was also uneventful. Lestrade called to notify Sherlock that Mr Langford had agreed to the surveillance and the guards and was told what wear tomorrow. John drank a lot of tea. He watched Sherlock twist uncomfortably on the sofa and wondered how on earth he had managed to end up in this position. What was Harry going to say? He checked his watch, three hours till she arrived, twenty-four hours till he was a married man.

* * *

Harry was forty-five minutes late, which was surprisingly punctual. John mentally admonished himself. It had been years since he had spent any significant time with Harry, before Afghanistan, she could have changed.

"John, how are you?" She engulfed him in a huge hug and he stuttered out a reply. He was getting as unused to contact as Sherlock. It really had been a long time since he had last dated, and John was now quite aware that he hadn't noticed the gap at all.

"Harry, Mrs Hudson, my Landlady." Mrs Hudson smiled and Harry commented on her lovely house. John thought that she was commendably relatively sober. She had tried to cut down for today, he thought. Sherlock was still upstairs. He had claimed that he would wait for the doorbell whilst John helped. Mrs Hudson had outdone herself.

John listened to Sherlock's unmistakable footfalls and mused that there was really nothing clumsy about the way he moved at all, at least when no one was employing an over-wrought metaphor. He flung open the door to 221A and flicked his hair. John hoped he wasn't going to put on some terrible act. Sherlock was an amazing actor; but John just wanted Harry to meet the real Sherlock. The one who would deduce how much alcohol she had drunk all year, and name her favourite Christmas song from the way her shoes matched her bag. John nodded approvingly at the ensemble: a flushed, slightly disheveled Sherlock clad in a tight purple shirt and black trousers. Harry noticed him looking and compared Sherlock's sharp style to John's stripy long-sleeved t-shirt that had a distinctly 'dad-down-with-the-kids' feel. Harry did not approve, but she didn't let it show in her face.

"My aren't you the handsome one. John's blog should have mentioned your sex appeal, or is that something my dear little brother would rather keep to himself?" John grimaced; Harry had always been a little too sharp for her own good. Perhaps it was a childhood with her that had prepared him for Sherlock. Sherlock had the audacity to put on his fake startled expression.

"Harriet Watson. How nice to meet you. I take it John hasn't told you the good news." Harry smiled.

"Is it that you are dating, because that much is obvious." Sherlock gave John a half-smile. John realised that Sherlock was going to let him tell her whatever he wanted.

"We're getting married." _Better out than in, wasn't that the saying? "_Tomorrow actually." Harry's face went white.

"Well you've been living together for, what two years now? Have we really fallen that out of touch? " She pulled at the bottom of her cardigan. "Congratulations, may your marriage be longer and better than mine." She let out an empty chuckle. "I think this deserves a toast!"

Mrs Hudson appeared from the kitchen carrying glasses of fizzy white wine that could have been the finest champagne. John could never tell but he had no doubt that Sherlock now knew the region, grape variety and year from the first sip.

"I follow John's blog even if we haven't kept in touch, so tell me Sherlock, apart from all the brushes with death, how did you convince John to choose a more adventurous partner? Devilish good looks aside." She laughed again. John and Sherlock's eyes met.

"He's just Sherlock – too brilliant to ignore." Harry smiled and Mrs Hudson brought through the roast lamb. John and Harry reminisced about old friends, and told equally embarrassing school anecdotes. Sherlock looked pensive throughout the whole process and John wondered if it reminded him of dinner parties with his family. John looked at the dingy flat, with its thirty-year-old décor. It was hardly similar to any mansion he could imagine. John also got around to inviting her to the wedding and explaining that it needed to be "kept secret from the people who enjoyed strapping him to bombs to make Sherlock sad." This made Harry chuckle some more but John was able to make her promise properly by explaining the huge network of criminals that Moriarty controlled. "Careless talk cost lives."

It turns out she was dating again and "only drinking a little." John knew not to get his hopes up or mention detox. Any attempt to chastise her would send her running. The conversation returned to family as Harry started the third bottle.

"If only Mum and Dad could see you now." John flinched at Harry's words. He knew this had been coming. "Their perfect John, with his perfect grades and his macho career and every part of his brain wired correctly, is going to marry a ex-junkie Eton-boy."

John's eyebrows shot up, "How did you know about…"

"My brother was an Etonian, I went to Harrow, Ms Watson." John repressed a snigger. He had thought Sherlock's aversion to Eton had been because of school rivalry but the enmity between the Holmes brothers was stronger than hundreds of years of competition.

"Still, Mum, with no grandchildren. She would be ever so sad." The false tone of Harry's voice was grating.

"She's dead, Harry, I can't write her a letter."

"How about Aunt Tessa, are you going to tell her? I mean, she will cut you out of inheriting the house, but it's a decrepit place anyway."

"I don't care about Aunt Tessa's house, Harry, you know that. I don't see why you are still so bitter. Mum came round - you live in the family home. It was the drinking that they didn't like Harry, not Clara."

"Not telling Aunt Tessa then. You are a coward, John, deep down inside, that's why it has taken you so long to realise what you truly fancy. You didn't want to be like fuck-up Harry, the disappointing child, so much that you chose to be unhappy." Harry was pushing his buttons. John knew he was anything but a coward, but it was harder to argue against when he was having a secret marriage and she had a normal civil-partnership with guests and family. Who would John have come his wedding anyway? May be some friends from Barts or his mates from the regiment but he had been appalling at keeping in touch. He had only bumped into Mike Stamford by accident in the park. Sarah was still his friend, even though he no longer worked at the surgery – her doctors were back from maternity now, but it would seem like a kick in the face. 'That person you said I cared about more than you? Turns out you were right.' Molly was the only one missing off the guest list and John suspected that was because Sherlock still wanted to be able to flirt with her for body parts.

"Everyone that I care about is coming Harry, and I explained the reasons. Please don't make me repeat myself." Sherlock had remained silent throughout the interaction. At this juncture he placed his hand on top of John's under the table. His whole posture was awkward; he had probably read up about relationships to prepare for the case. John wondered whether he chose a psychology textbook, a romance novel, self-help book, or even magazines for teenage girls. John hoped that he hadn't used the last option, especially for tips in bedroom. He gave himself another mental kick. _Monday was sexual crisis day. _He had ignored Harry's jibes about his apparent orientation-change surprisingly easily. Harry let out a huge fake sigh.

"Well I'm glad that you finally decided to invite me then. Do you want me to feel privileged, to be glad that you care? What about your family Sherlock, have they disowned you too, or does John never have to worry about money again?" Mrs Hudson tutted and moved the wine bottle to her end of the table.

"Ms Watson, whilst testing my deductions concerning John's childhood has been… entertaining, this conversation is dull. You are not even effective in your attempts to wound John. You blame him for joining the army and leaving you to deal with your parents' deaths alone. You blame your sexuality for the distance between you and your mother but she cared more about your life-choices than your girlfriends. John does persist in feeling guilt concerning your mother's cancer despite not being an oncologist. Conclusion, you would have been better to insult his medical prowess concerning your family rather than his courage." Sherlock turned to John and squeezed his hand, "I think the time taken up by your employment is worth the improvement to your self-esteem John, even if your increased free-time is beneficial."

John felt a warm feeling build up from his chest as he turned an interesting shade of pink_._ His earlier fears that Sherlock was marrying him as a way to possess or control John dissipated. He noted that Sherlock had to follow through with his claim and let him keep a job; John was not going to be taken in by empty words. He still worried what Sherlock's motivations for their marriage had become, now that his initial guesses seemed incorrect. He was beginning to suspect that Sherlock didn't know either, but that was far too novel a concept. Mrs Hudson interrupted Harry's reply. "Now dears I think it's time that we were all off to bed. It's probably best you stay here tonight Harriet. I had thought that you would take their spare-room but I don't think it would be good to leave you children unsupervised. You can sleep on my sofa-bed and tomorrow we'll go clothes shopping."

They said their goodnights and John began to hum _Land of Hope and Glory_, anything to keep his mind away from considering whose room he would be sleeping in on Sunday. It wasn't like Sherlock slept much anyway and they weren't trying to fool Mycroft so there would be no reason to change… John's mind drifted back to their kissing session yesterday. _Mother of the free, How shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?_

* * *

Sherlock was gone when John woke up. John had a moment of insanity where he wondered if his 'fiancé ' had run off the night before the wedding. He shook his head, may be that therapist would be a good idea. Three sips of his tea later and Sherlock had rushed back in. John caught himself before he looked for a bouquet of flowers, but that would definitely mean something terrible had happened. Thankfully flower-less Sherlock still appeared flustered.

"I asked you to text Lestrade."

"When?"

"An hour ago."

"I was asleep; it was 6am." Sherlock didn't respond nor did he take off his coat. _Here we go_, thought John. The phone began to ring in John's hands.

"Ah, John is Sherlock there?" John handed the phone to Sherlock wordlessly. Sherlock's smile indicated that someone had probably died in a particularly interesting manner.

John put on his coat, "I trust we are not going to be late to our own wedding Sherlock?"

"The third man's alive!"

* * *

Mr Henry Langford was lying on a chaise longue with a blanket draped over his shoulders. It wasn't orange but John knew that a paramedic had put it there. His breathing was erratic and had recently been choking back sobs. Sherlock made his way around the room, pausing to read a postcard from Islamabad. John sat in the chair opposite and decided to try and make himself useful.

"Hello Mr Langford, do you remember me?" Mr Langford turned to John and smacked his left-hand across his eyes.

"Oh, damn and blast, Shirley, you are enjoying this you sadistic bastard."

"Please don't cast aspersions about mummy Henry, it's not polite."

Lestrade looked up from the corner of Persian rug he had been examining. "You know Sherlock, Mr Langford?"

"Distantly related, our fathers' were cousins." Lestrade let out a breadth and John fancied he could see Lestrade think 'thank the heavens there is not another Holmes brother.'

John smiled, "would you like to go through what happened?"

"I've already explained it to the police and I have no desire to debase myself in front of Shirley."

"Oh, I thought you enjoyed it?" Sherlock didn't turn round as he spoke, absorbed in the contents of the bottom of a vase. "You seem to attempt to do so at every opportunity."

John wondered if it was just because Sherlock knew that Mr Langford hated being addressed in a Mycroft-like manner than made Sherlock do it. Lestrade appeared a mixture of confusion and mirth probably for the use of 'Shirley.' He took pity on John who was still waiting for Mr Langford's reply.

"Four men came in from the roof. They must have climbed up at least five houses away as we've had surveillance on that radius. They were dressed in some sort of urban-camouflage as far as we can determine. The men made their way in carefully we only spotted by the officer's stationed outside Mr Langford's bedroom. At Sherlock's request." Lestrade's glare revealing Mr Langford's stubbornness on the matter. "They over powered the officer but he sounded the alarm. Unfortunately Mr Langford had already been removed from his bed at least two hours earlier. He was found tied to a tree near the Albert Memorial in Kensington Gardens at 5.45am. Apparently he had been abducted when it was still dark, taken to a cellar, threatened with death by 'heated sports equipment inserted into the body's orifices' and shown the equipment in question. He acquiesced to the group's demands," Sherlock looked like a child who had dropped their ice-cream and Lestrade locked eyes with John, "which seemed to involve making a phone call to Pakistan where he revealed knowledge of spot-fixing in cricket matches. Named three key players, and implicated English management as well."

Lestrade grimaced slightly, "it appears that whilst we searched for Mr Langford his personal safe, stored in the wine cellar, was apprehended by the four camouflaged men who made their escape during the swat team's storming of the house. The story broke on the breakfast news this morning…" A police constable approached Lestrade and whispered something in his ear. Lestrade beamed "And the documents from your safe were just delivered to the Yard, Mr Langford, you are under arrest for conspiracy to cheat at gambling and conspiracy to accept corrupt payments. Davis," he gestured to the constable, "do the honours." Davis escorted Mr Langford outside.

"Someone's got in it for your old acquaintances, Sherlock, family no less." Lestrade picked up the postcard Sherlock had been examining earlier.

"These people make a lot of enemies, being a criminal has its downsides." Sherlock had put down the vase and was now going through a photo album from the bookshelf.

"So Mr Lintyre and Mr Gosphor, they had some big criminal secret too? That they died to protect?"

"Nothing so grand. They thought they died to protect their families from scandal, but I think they were trying to protect each other most of all. I am sure the accusations against them were false, but the evidence appeared undisputable. Mr Lintyre did hang himself, but only because he believed that had murdered Mr Gosphor the night before. Mr Gosphor was dead before Mr Lintyre tried to smother him. Mr Gosphor took the poison because he believed he that Mr Lintyre had been betrothed to another and the scandal of Mr Lintyre's and Gosphor's relationship would destroy Mr Lintyre's father's career and chance at a real family. Mr Lintyre attempted the smothering of Mr Gosphor's warm corpse as he was shown evidence of infidelity, plans to expose Mr Lintyre to the cruelest of media storms, and further indication that the whole relationship had been a Machiavellian plan for his destruction from the start. It was a delightful concept but the first scene was badly executed. No one paid any attention to the important details. The handkerchief placed on the dinner table beside the woman's head, the post card from Morocco claiming to be from 'Cass' who you won't find in any of Mr Lintyre's contacts, and the tickets to the RSC's Othello, three of them - one for a child, which is strange as a man with Mr Lintyre's shoes drops any of his friends that do the world the disservice of producing offspring. The headless child was a stupid distraction but Mr Gosphor must have needed extra incentives. The Polish mob clearly lacks a proper classical education." Sherlock appeared to run out of breath.

"Brilliant." John smiled, "Absolutely amazing. Othello then? The Moor kills his wife because the Machiavellian character insinuates she is sleeping with his lieutenant and then offs himself."

Sherlock smiled that frighteningly large smile again, "Definitely worth the wait."

Lestrade huffed. "Bloody hell Sherlock, it's been four-days, we've been wasting time. Why set up such a half-hearted attempt at reenacting Othello? Did he have something to gain from this or are we looking for a nut with an excellent classical education?" He gave Sherlock an accusing look. John could understand; Sherlock had been so disappointed with the sub-par execution of Lintyre's murder that even John had doubted him.

"Your time is of little importance to me. And it was not just John; Lintyre's death was too boring on it's own. Unfortunately my deductions will not help you make arrests. For completeness I will explain Mr Gosphor's statuesque death…"

"I worked that bit out Sherlock. Samson murders a thousand philistines with a donkey's jawbone because his wife was betrothed to someone else in his absence. Gosphor believed Lintyre was going to settle down with the blonde woman and the child. You damn well got that from the statue, don't tell me it was the dirt under his fingernails."

"Lestrade, it appears you were listening, there is hope for the police force yet. Catch any of the hired hands? I certainly gave you enough information to identify them."

"We managed to get descriptions of Miss Krawiec's pimp and interviewed her daughter's school mates. Apart from taking down a small cannabis dealing operation we couldn't get any closer to the mob. Imperial College reported a smashed camera, and we tracked as many of the protestors as we could on CCTV as they were dispersed from outside the embassy. We lost a lot of them on the tube and the ones we could follow had alibis."

"Good professional killers. The mastermind has excellent criminal connections. However, he has little to gain from the pawns' deaths. What our mastermind wants are cases like Mr Langford's. It's the scandal and discrediting of the 'victims' and their families, especially their families, which he aims for."

"Hang on Sherlock, that doesn't make sense, what scandal were Lintyre and Gosphor protected from with the double suicide? Surely that is a scandal." Lestrade was clearly running out of 'dealing-with-Sherlock-patience.'

"Both of them were offered a choice. For Lintyre the option was kill Gosphor and then make sure he wouldn't be blamed or have his father discredited. Gosphor was also told to kill himself for Lintyre and his father which just shows that 'love is a blind fool especially when family complicates matters of the heart.'" John tried to remember the rest of that conversation_. Sportsmanship, cricket, Mycroft, third-place,_ _Sherlock certainly knew this was going to happen, 'Look to your house' indeed. So the Lord fellow knows something_. Somehow it seemed less surprising now that Sherlock knew Lintyre and Gosphor were dead before the police. It also just struck John that he had never identified the school acquaintance who emailed him in the first place. John had just assumed it was Peter Lintyre.

"So the mastermind's leverage was Lintyre and Gosphor's love? And in Henry's case it was his conspiracy racket? That hardly seems right, that they both died and Langford will live." Moriarty was almost a safe bet in John's book, psychopathic indifference to motive.

Lestrade lifted an eyebrow at the use of Langford's first name and wondered how much time John had spent with Sherlock's family, which reminded him, "This is all looking a little personal Sherlock, I'm not even sure I should have had you anywhere nearby whilst I was arresting your family members, however distant."

"Oh, come on Lestrade, it's not as if I have affected the evidence in any way. My involvement was to warn you of Henry's abduction, his lawyers would have a hard time proving malicious intent. Why must you be so dull?"

They left Mr Langford's house, stopping to grin at the constable who was still trying to bundle Mr Langford into a police car. Evidently the paramedics had taken a long time to examine whether Mr Langford was in too much shock to be arrested. John imagined he could put on quite an act. The criminal called out, "I hope they go after you Shirley; you deserve it far more than the whole lot of us. Blood is thicker than water, stickier too."

Lestrade appeared behind them as they strolled to a more public road. "Anything you want to add?"

"Come with us! I think Mycroft has put on a lunch and there's just enough time to pick you up something to wear."

"Sherlock, I can't leave my team in the middle of an investigation. I need to interview Langford, see what he knows about Lintyre and Gosphor."

"Langford knows nothing. Come with us and I'll get you an interview with someone who does."

Lestrade looked conflicted. "Fine, I'll trust you, Sherlock. I have to."

* * *

"That's not your plan is it? Attract the mastermind to our wedding and then have a full-blown firefight? May be even get all our friends kidnapped and have the full force of Mycroft's army round them all up?" John glared at Sherlock. It sounded like something he would 'plan.' Especially if he did suspect that Moriarty was more involved and had not wanted John to worry. Lestrade was changing into his suit in the bathroom and John had come to Sherlock's room to collect an outfit that he must have added surreptitiously in that old world where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were not hours from tying the knot.

"No John, I meant it when I said that I didn't think Moriarty would be interested." Sherlock placed each of his hands on John's shoulders and was careful not to press too hard on the bullet wound. "These puzzles aren't personal enough. Moriarty knows the intricacies of my life. He knows that I have little interest in Shakespeare or Bible stories. Murder for murder sake is far more interesting." He spun John round a little at each sentence. John was still unsure, some of Moriarty's puzzles smacked of a classical education – 'Janus Cars' was the prime example.

"Please tell me you are not going to put yourself in danger Sherlock."

"John, the wedding will go swimmingly." Sherlock leant forward and pulled John into a loose hug. John angled his head so he could meet Sherlock's eyes. "One more practice kiss?" John was aware that he was being purposely distracted but at this point there was nothing to do other than trust the infuriating man. Sherlock swooped down and captured John's lips. John tightened the hug, rubbing their upright bodies together for the first time. He could feel Sherlock's response and although nothing was at full mast, there certainly was some feedback. He gasped and John deepened the kiss. John felt a warm feeling build-up, filling his body from his toe to his crown. _He was probably bright pink._ Sherlock was in more control than the last-time but had clearly been paying attention to John's lessons. The kiss was passionate but not sloppy and they just couldn't get enough of it. _If Moriarty did blow up their wedding, _John mused; _they better get their kiss. _

"Bathroom's free," Lestrade called from the living room shattering the moment. They separated and John went to get changed in his bedroom.

"What is all this for? Is the informant some sort of Lord or something? Won't speak to you unless you are wearing your two-o'clock suit?" Lestrade quizzed John as he joined him in the living room, bowtie still loose around his neck.

"You any good with these?"

"Useless, I'm sure Sherlock will do it for you. Going to Oxford had to have taught him something."

"Did Sherlock not tell you where we are going or why?"

"Not a word. Is it important?" John pondered how to answer that question and decided to give the D.I. a surprise.

"Come on now, Mycroft's car is outside." Sherlock tied John's bowtie in seconds. John gave himself a mental kick as he pictured those nibble fingers fiddling with more intimate parts of his anatomy.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm sorry for the slow speed and the overly verbose bits – you should see what I delete! There will be bedroom fun soon… ish? May be in the next chapter? I just love _Awkward_ _Romance. _Is that a real genre?

Let me know what you think and thank you for reading. I am having far too much fun writing this – I've stopped doing anything else in my spare time! Consequently, I may have to take a few days off to catch up with people outside of work and to clean my flat… *cough, ok may be the flat can wait…* I am still one/two chapters ahead so the update rate won't slow down too much.

Thank you for reading and interacting; you make this process so exciting!


	5. Chapter 5: Tying the Lilac Knot

Hello again! Thank you for reading, following, favouriting and special thanks to Anon and power0girl for reviewing. I do love finding out what people are looking forward too.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the cake, which I made myself for the Jubilee weekend.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Tying the Lilac Knot**

John found it so hard to not laugh as Lestrade bumbled his way through the Lunch. Even Mrs Hudson was playing a long and Mycroft explained that this whole afternoon had to be kept a secret. Lestrade had asked Sherlock what use an interview he couldn't tell anyone about was, and Sherlock had pointed out that it was one that led to further interviews. Harry was still getting ready, or still avoiding John, and was holed up in one of the rooms they had been given in the mansion. It was an Edwardian pile, somewhere north of London that belonged to their registrar.

At a quarter to three a portly gentleman, who appeared to be the only visible member of staff announced the arrival of Mrs Sylvia Constance Lewis Holmes. The rest of the party scrambled to their feet as she swept in. It was obvious where her sons had inherited their flare for dramatics.

"Doctor Watson, how charming to make your acquaintance. My boys have had only good things to say." John kissed her proffered hand and wondered when Sherlock had last spoken to his mother. "Mycroft does like to gossip." She winked conspiratorially. "Ah, Mrs Hudson, thank you for looking after Sherlock – he has always had a tendency to neglect himself. And you must be the Detective Inspector; you encourage his best actions. Yes, Sherlock has made himself quite the cosy family; in fact you must come on Boxing Day. I'm sure I'll have someone exciting for you to meet." Both the Holmes brothers grimaced and John wondered what she was implying. "I don't think that your father would have predicted this, Sherlock, the boy who never compromised himself enough to make a friend, is the only one of us Holmes's who needs a family."

"Mummy, I merely…"

"Oh hogwash, Sherlock, you have never been so stable so I hardly think you can claim _merely_ anything. Say thank you to your family, Sherlock." Sherlock looked suitably admonished and Mycroft remained blank-faced at his brother's discomfort, avoiding his mother's peculiar brand of attention.

"Thank you." Sherlock looked directly at John, daring him to comment.

"Well, I don't think I'll stay for the rest of the ceremony. You have Mycroft, and although I worry, I know there's little connection left between us. You are both such special boys." The brothers looked mortified. "I doubt you will make my Boxing Day mixer but if you manage to refrain from starting any wars," she looked at Mycroft, "or ending any marriages," she looked at Sherlock, "then I will consider you both adults. Good day. Mycroft don't send anymore letters for at least two months, I'm going, well you know where I am going but still I would prefer it if you at least pretended not to interfere. I will do the interfering myself thank you very much."

"But mummy dearest, the company there is…"

"You know how I met your father Mycroft, don't pretend that you haven't insulated yourself from me. Good day, boys, Inspector, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mycroft as Mrs Holmes made her way towards the exit. She had barely had the chance to sit down and had partaken in no wine or food. John wondered how much Mycroft used 'mummy's worrying' as a shield for his own. Perhaps their father had died very young, it would explain Mycroft's paternal role.

Mrs Hudson broke the silence, "She's quite like you Sherlock, more than your brother, I mean." John tried to imagine if Sherlock had been threatened into attending Mycroft's wedding. He could definitely see it: Mrs Holmes effectively announced the whole occasion as 'boring.' He wondered if the four-month absence was some sort of punishment for Mycroft's obvious interference. What it would it have been like having a female version of Sherlock as your mother? He reassessed his view of Sherlock's early years from 'lonely' to 'traumatising and inconsistent.'

"Yes, they both tend to be rather dramatic individuals. Has your sister finished John? Only I think we need to move to the main hall." John stood up to fetch her, but Mycroft waved his hands in the direction of the portly servant. "Now there is protocol to follow for the next part, Detective Inspector can take you John, and I will take Sherlock. I don't imagine either of you wish to be given away but one of you must stand at the altar. Preferences, or must I decide everything?" Lestrade paled, and Sherlock and John enjoyed watching the proverbial penny drop. He had such an expressive face when he was shocked.

"I'll wait for John, brother." Lestrade had tried to take a calming sip of the wine but split most of it over his hands.

"Excellent, Lestrade please take John through there," he gestured to a unremarkable solid oak door "and wait until Mr Brunswick returns to escort you in."

Lestrade acted like a soldier under orders that he didn't understand and fumbled his way to the door, John trying not to burst out laughing beside him. Once through the door he found his voice.

"Why didn't you bloody tell me? I feel like an idiot! You didn't need to have Sherlock make up some stupid interview either, I would have taken time off to come to your bloody wedding!" He paced back and forth in what was probably an anteroom considering its small size. John's laughter broke free. Lestrade was acting like the exasperated groom to be, Sherlock should be careful they weren't married instead.

"I'm sorry, it was cruel, but I've only known since Thursday so I think I was just trying to readdress the balance."

"Thursday? And you are fine with this? You really will do anything for that man."

John smiled and nodded, it seemed odd to hear it from someone else's lips, but it didn't make it any less true.

"Are we it, the guests I mean? I understand Sherlock isn't exactly social but I would have thought that you would have more…friends."

"It has to be kept a secret, Moriarty, you understand…" John decided not to clarify the matter further.

"Well, I'm honoured to be invited, and well apparently to be your best-man. You should have asked John, spending so much time with Sherlock has ruined your manners." The both chuckled. "Though I don't imagine that is going to change. Well, congratulations Dr John Watson for making an honest man out of Sherlock Holmes, in one respect any way." They shook hands and John began to tug at the lilac waistcoat Sherlock had bought for him. What would his parents have said? He adjusted the cufflinks, smoothed down his hair, and loosened the bow tie. "Will you stop fiddling, you are making me nervous!" John laughed again.

"Would sirs like to follow me." The portly man had returned. John took a deep breadth; the guidelines had explained the process. He whispered to Lestrade to follow him on his left-hand side and stay a step behind. They were guided into a large hall, which looked absurd with small number of people sitting near the front. On the right sat Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson and on the left sat Harry. Lord Kilburn, chalk dust free as far as John could tell, stood in front of a lectern with an old leather bound tome open on it. John examined Sherlock: curls and sharp lines wrapped in a tightly tailored dark-grey suit. There was no denying that John found this man beautiful. At that moment marrying him seemed like the most natural progression of their relationship. His heart seemed to be trying and leap out of his throat at the speed it was beating.

Lord Kilburn began to read from an internal script, "We are gathered here today…" The ceremony continued and John fought a strange urge to grab Sherlock's hand. He stood to attention instead, employing his army self-control, idly wondering if he would have preferred to be in his dress uniform. Then it came to the vows which followed the Church of England's "have and to hold, to love and to cherish…" John had stumbled through the words but Sherlock was perfect, his aristocratic diction articulating each _t_ and _a_. "I now pronounce you husband and husband, you may kiss."

They slowly turned to face one another; John noticed that Sherlock's eyes had an odd gleam to them, like he was on the verge of crying. They placed their arms like they had done on the sofa, John enjoying the feel of Sherlock's curls. Bringing their lips together they kissed, chastely, and then open mouthed. It was awkward, short, and overwhelming passionate. John felt warm, fuzzy and light-headed as an incredible wave of joy made him both break into wide smiles. They clasped hands and walked towards the exit, neither one wanting to break the silence between them. John leaned a little towards Sherlock. _Till death do us part. _

They were led into a drawing room, Sherlock and John still hand in hand. The portly servant, Mr Brunswick, gave everyone a glass of champagne and Harry's eyes lit up. Mrs Hudson had clearly been keeping her sober all morning, which had probably caused the strop. Lord Kilburn approached the couple. "Congratulations. Tickets are in the post boys, I hope you enjoy The Noble Moor." Lestrade cocked his head in Lord Kilburn's direction and made his escape from Mycroft's, Mrs Hudson's and Harry's stilted conversation.

"Thank you, and thank you for today as well."

"Quite alright my boy, 'the sight of lovers feedeth those in love.'" _Does this man speak only through the medium of Shakespeare quotes? _John could almost feel Sherlock's distaste at the inefficiency.

"Beautiful ceremony, I don't believe we've been introduced…"

"Lord Kilburn," Sherlock interrupted quickly "this is Scotland Yard's least useless Detective Inspector. Inspector Lestrade, Lord Kilburn." They shook hands.

"Charmed Inspector. Are you planning on coming to the play as well? You should. I think Othello is my favourite, the jealousy, the machinating villain, and the murders. Real motives behind them too, not like Hamlet where I wouldn't be surprised to learn that old Will killed them off to stop their incessant whinging."

Lestrade smiled. "I don't know the play that well, but I think I will try and go. I might even take the kids."

"Ticket's for the preview night have all gone, but I could probably procure you a few. Priority tickets for friends, you remember Luke of course," he turned to John, "he's so very busy but well, 'the play's the thing.'" This time Sherlock groaned perceptively. "And with that gentlemen I must leave you. Congratulations again gentlemen and many happy returns."

Lestrade gave Sherlock a long look, "This is for the case." He gestured to the environment. "I feel I should stand up for John's honour and point out that you are still holding his hand. You aren't going to mess it all up are you Sherlock? John is…"

"Still right here, Greg." John looked at Sherlock who displayed the slightest hints of confusion. He squeezed the consulting detective's hand.

"So well, is it Lord Kilburn then? Shakespeare nut with the criminal connections, I mean, he knows you two."

"And you were doing so well earlier Inspector. No, Lord Kilburn is not an innocent man but he is not one to sanction violence. Rather the crimes are to threaten him. So far they are tailored to his love of the Bard, Renaissance art and cricket. It was his father who donated 'Samson Slaying a Philistine' to the V&A in the 50s. I thought you had read the plaque? As always you miss the important details so don't waste my time with your half-hearted attempts at deductions."

"Should we have him protected?"

"He would refuse. Luke Greene should be put under low-key surveillance but he is not the most likely candidate."

"Sherlock, come on then, who is?"

"There are three possibilities, but I do not know the timing. Since there is No pattern the hired hands must decide the time. The first is the Duke of Rommerfield's daughter, a Miss Catherine Rommerfield. She has a house in Hampsted you can attempt to watch her, the next is a Miss Sarah Payne, a doctor's daughter who lives in Oxshott, She is attempting to procure an art installation from France and returns on Tuesday. Finally, a Mr Adam Sommerton, his father holds some government position. "

"Wait, the new Defence Secretary's son?" Lestrade appeared to think back, "Isn't he only eighteen?"

"Twenty-three."

"That's a bit early to involved in all this, isn't it Sherlock? He won't have had the time to make the, um, commitment…" John attempted to not reveal the Gray Foundation to Lestrade as he thought Sherlock must have a good reason to keep the inspector in the dark. Not that he could fathom what it was. _The things you do for love…_ he mentally kicked himself so hard that he started coughing. Lestrade, Sherlock and the other small huddle of guests turned to look at him. "Champagne bubbles, sorry." He waved the glass and Sherlock gave him a quizzical look.

"He has been close friends with Lord Henley's sons from childhood, the eldest of whom is thirty-two."

"That's still a bit off Sherlock. Nine years is a long-time when you are that young."

"I believe it is the nature of this connection that has helped make him a target but it is his father's new position that has contributed the most. It doesn't suit you to be judgemental John."

"Wait, is Lord Henley's son a target too?" Lestrade seemed aware that he was missing important information.

"No Lord Henley's son is untouchable, even for a criminal this resourceful." Sherlock sighed dramatically at their blank faces. "He is dead. Motorcycle accident two-months ago."

"Where are you getting this information Sherlock?"

"The photo-album in Mr Langford's flat: old but recently updated, which is peculiar in the age of digital photography so these were pictures of people who kept their association quiet. Catherine and Sarah Payne, her paramour, were frequently pictured socialising with Lintyre and Gosphor. Andrew Sommerton is connected to the group via Lord Henley and his father would not be the first person levered out Defence Secretary."

"The scandal with the advisor in Washington, that was our mastermind as well?"

"Did you not see the colour of their ties?" John closed his eyes, searching his sixty-four per cent accurate memory. "Purple, John." Sherlock gestured to his lilac waistcoat. "As was Mr Lintyre's suicide weapon."

"So public figures victims of scandal who resign in purple-ties are targets of a psychotic blackmailer?"

"Don't generalise Lestrade, it's sloppy."

"Then what were the ties for," Lestrade's patience was being tested again, John could feel the tension.

"They were a warning."

* * *

John didn't have the chance to press Sherlock for further explanation, as his brother guided them over to Harry as soon as Mrs Hudson left for the bathroom. Harry's eyes had glazed over.

"Congratulations Johnny! Did you know Sherlock's old family friends used to call him Shirley!"

"I am serious, don't call me Shirley." Sherlock's delivered the line in a commanding tone. John gaped and Lestrade chuckled. Did know the reference? John looked at Mycroft for help.

"Well, I have a drinking problem." Harry was smiling. John wondered if there was anyway to end this conversation without attempted murder.

"That much is obvious. Are you going to do anything about it or just self-destruct?"

"A bit high and mighty for an ex-junkie, but then it's the ones that succeed that are the most self-righteous."

"Don't mistake my question for concern Ms Watson, I am simply determining how much of an interference you will be in John's life. If you continue you will be dead in, say, seven years, and John will most likely still ignore you. Rehabilitation attempts, whilst an annoying strain on John's time, would make him happier in the long-term, even if it gave you the same prognosis."

John was desperately trying to think of an excuse to extract Sherlock from the confrontation. Call him a sap but John wanted mainly happy memories from his wedding, no one had been blown-up so far, and they had only discussed the murders of strangers. He looked at Mycroft whose expression was purposely bland. Perhaps he saw this as punishment for leaving him with Harry. Lestrade was examining the ceiling avidly. With no other plan John laced his hand into Sherlock's curls and kissed him quickly on the lips. He drew back and noted that Mycroft had joined Lestrade in cataloguing the ceiling art. It was Harry's turn to gape. John hoped he didn't look like that when he was shocked.

"John Hamish Watson, your husband has corrupted you."

"Harry, you can hardly be a homophobe."

"Oh, I don't mean your sexuality. I knew you fancied that Tim bloke at Uni, you practically hung off his arm. Like I said before, all repressed, because you were a little sycophant. It's the fact you approve of him, of what he says, of the way he doesn't care about anyone properly. You don't tolerate it, like you wrote on that stupid blog; you don't believe he'll be a good man one day. You like him just the cruel, crazy way he is and that is wrong. He hurts people because he doesn't know how to care, but you love him for it, that makes you a very sick man John."

Mycroft stepped in front of Harry blocking Sherlock's view with his back. "I think it is time for you to go home Ms. Watson. Outside a car will take you where you need to go. I don't normally have to say this, but any further contact with your brother or mine not initialised by them will lead me to take a more active role in your treatment Ms Watson, for an indefinite period of time. I'm told some of the more draconian methods are still the most effective at treating alcoholics." Harry downed her champagne and stormed out. It appeared Mycroft was allowed to have the last word.

"She's leaving so soon? But we haven't cut the cake. Oh, what did you say this time Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson must have missed the whole encounter.

"This time Sherlock was the civil one, come on Mrs Hudson lets see if we can convince them to bring the cake in." Lestrade guided the woman back the way she had come. Mycroft began organise something on his phone.

John's thoughts arrived in flashes, anger at Harry, self-loathing, protectiveness, confusion, more self-loathing and something he couldn't identify. He focussed on that feeling and buried his head in Sherlock's suit lapels. Sherlock snaked his arms around John and drew light circles on his back, not quite hugging the man. There wasn't enough contact for it to be comforting so John threw his arms around Sherlock's waist and squeezed. They stood like that for a moment, in companionable silence while Mycroft's phone made little clicking noises. "She was right… I don't… I don't think that you are wrong, all the time, I mean I agree sometimes when I shouldn't."

"I know John, you agreed to the wedding too. I compromised your moral beliefs for my own ends."

"'But you apologised, and I am starting to think that there was never any conflict." Sherlock drew back so that he could look into John's bright eyes. There was a loud clunk as Mycroft shut a door behind him.

"I manipulated you, rushed your decision, I used your need to save people. You may not think I am a complete sociopath John, but it is still true that I do not care 'properly'." The echo of Harry's words stung and John took a deep breadth.

"You care about me and that is enough. If that makes me a sick man, then I need to see a doctor." Sherlock's smile was frighteningly wide again.

"Lucky for you I just happened to marry one."

"You did, didn't you." Their lips met and there was fire flowing through them. They pawed at each other's clothes and tried to meld into one whilst letting out the most sensual noises.

"Cake dearies, you've got to cut it together." Mrs Hudson ignored their dishevelled appearance and Lestrade placed a large cake, decorated with a union flag, beside the champagne. Someone had taken care to make it the right-way up.

"Where did you brother run off to?"

"I'm sure he will return after he thinks a suitable amount of time has passed."

Lestrade flushed. "You are going to have be careful at crime scenes, only I don't think I'll be able to stop Donavon from locking you up if you start kissing over the corpses." John turned bright red and Sherlock looked intrigued. Lestrade remembered that a well-timed glare would stop their giggling so he wasn't completely powerless. This provided little comfort.

* * *

They cut the cake whilst Lestrade took photographs and Mycroft appeared from another door just as it was being plated up. They reminisced over some of the funnier antics of John and Sherlock at Baker Street and listened to Mrs Hudson lament her "poor wall." John fell asleep on Sherlock's shoulder during the journey home; it had been an emotionally exhausting day.

"I hadn't time to get any presents, what with the short notice, so I had John's things moved into your room Sherlock. Thought it would save you the bother. Oh and I let Mycroft have it turned into some sort of lab this afternoon. That means you can use the kitchen for eating. He even added another fridge for the body parts." Sherlock smiled that frighteningly wide smile again but quickly shot John a concerned look. Nothing had been discussed and Sherlock had no idea what to expect. He was aware what exploring his connection with John would probably entail; he had borrowed John's laptop to research the matter. He knew John had been displaying signs of attraction beyond friendship long before the kissing had started but he was also aware that John had dismissed these emotions easily before.

Sherlock's own thoughts were disconcertingly confused. He had believed at first that John would deny their marriage existed after it was no longer necessary. The thought had made him uncomfortable but it was logical that after a brief period of awkwardness the status quo would return. There had been a similar period of awkwardness after they had escaped from Moriarty that Sherlock ad attributed to _the woman's_ interference. Now they had agreed to stay married and explore their non-platonic feelings so with this new data sharing a bed was the logical option.

Relationships were easy to analyse from the outside. Couples starring longingly into each other eyes over dinner would let tell tale signs of boredom, lust and commitment show in their touches and out-fits, but Sherlock was struggling to contextualise his own. He did care for John and around John he could never be objective, which had taken a while for Sherlock to process. He had begun to be more careful with John's life, notice his preferences, and allow himself to be looked after without much of a fight. He knew that loosing John would break something irreparable and cause him to withdraw from the world and the work. He also knew that people did not like to be entirely responsible for someone's mental health so he attempted to hide how much his functionality was dependant on John. He thought he had been relatively successful, despite Mycroft's blatant allusions, if you could have such things.

Sexual acts were an extension of their co-dependence, he theorised, and Sherlock did feel waves of sexual attraction for John: when John surprised him or recently when he looked particularly determined. It would be uncomfortable to continue to ignore his body's response to John's and John would not want to be celibate. Also Sherlock was not going to share any part of Dr Watson unless it was necessary to keep John happy and functioning too. Sherlock decided that he would preform this function to the best of his abilities, and he was beginning to suspect that he would enjoy it too.

Sherlock had been lost in his own thoughts for mere moments but John had started to come round. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson," he yawned.

"Good night boys," she winked as she headed back to 221A.

"I am more than happy to stay on the sofa, John."

"Monday, it's not Monday yet. Come on, let's just go to bed." John began to drag Sherlock to his, their, room. He stripped off to his shirt, boxers and socks. He snuggled under the covers, staying near the edge of the bed. Sherlock stared at him owlishly and began to follow suit, mentally cataloguing John's possible reactions to a kiss goodnight. Sherlock gave John one last look up and down and pecked him on the cheek. Flushing at his childish action, he switched off the light and made an effort to sleep, rigid, on the far right of the bed.

**A/N: **Thank you again! The next chapter is taking me a while to fiddle with. Reviewers can have virtual Jubilee cakes. They are an orange fruit cake with regal icing that are in real life dairy and gluten free, but in the virtual and story universe full of yummy butter and flour.


	6. Chapter 6: A Danish Prince

My eternal thanks to my readers, followers, favouriters and my special thanks to my wonderful reviewers Boxerbee and power0girl. This time there are no plot-related cakes but there will be some of Angelo's Italian food next chapter, which I'll gift in my reviewers in lieu of cake.

Disclaimer: I own nothing: all rights to Arthur Conon Doyle's Estate, BBC, Gatiss and Moffat. Shakespeare references belong to Shakespeare...

* * *

**Chapter 6: The Danish Prince**

Morning found them tangled together in the centre of the bed. Sherlock was not a serene sleeper. John, despite his exhaustion had been woken up three times during the night so he had tried grasping a hold of Sherlock in attempt to still him. It had worked, so much for not cuddling. John gave Sherlock a good morning kiss on the cheek.

The fridge was full of milk, John smiled, it was a peculiar wedding present but one that made him smile even more. _So it what if it was Sexual Crisis Monday_, John decided, _he was going to let it come naturally_. Cuddling Sherlock in bed had been brilliant, and Harry's revelation was less unsettling in the cold morning light. Loving someone for who they are, not who you want them to be, is the cornerstone of a good relationship. John knew that no matter what happened in the bedroom he wouldn't be looking at anyone but Sherlock. _If this is not love then he would like someone to show him what is._

Sherlock accepted a cup of tea after his shower and presented John with a print-out of locum jobs and John had beamed. He wondered just how nauseatingly happy they looked.

* * *

"Adam Sommerton would like to speak with you." Lestrade looked slightly uncomfortable. He had called them to a house in Fulham. "Good night?" Sherlock was still smiling from this morning and Lestrade suddenly decided that he really didn't want to know. "He's in the front room."

They were guided into a drab sitting room with laminate flooring and Ikea sofas. This was very different from the opulent Kensington mansions of Lintyre and Langford.

"Rented here long Adam?" John attempted to surprise Sherlock, but apparently the deduction was elementary.

"Only a couple of months, it's alright, cheap for the area. Daddy has to be more careful with his money at the moment." Adam spoke into his chest. He was a skinny boy, dressed in expensive shirt and jeans that were slightly too big so he had lost weight recently. Depressed. His secret lover had only died two months ago, another simple deduction, thought John.

"You're Sherlock Holmes. I think the last time we met I was five and you had been sent home from school for burning something. You said that I was boring. Archie said you did all kinds of terrible things at school but hardly ever got caught, and when you were your family sorted it out for you. On paper we're not so different," Adam looked at John briefly before examining his shoes again, "but in person you are terrifying. The detective explained that someone is going offer me a choice between my father's career and my life. I don't care much for my life without _him_ but I do know my father does. I rather think either choice would end his career. I would like the great Sherlock Holmes to create a third choice. My father will cover your expenses, though he would prefer to employ your friend, Dr Watson, as my therapist to hide this from the media." Adam's phrasing should no signs of youth, but he had spent most of his time with someone nine years his senior.

"You do not care whether the criminal is stopped, only that your father is spared the pain and humiliation. Have your father call a favour in at the home office and a government agency will relocate you with a new identity and access to his money. They will be able to arrange a phantom car accident; a motorcycle would be more poetic. They might even let you choose the country. Somewhere out of Europe would be best, I'd recommend Chile. There, a third choice" Sherlock paused, "free of charge."

"As a policeman, I should ask you to stay and help with the investigation, but I think if you can run you should try. We'll keep officers here till you are sorted."

Adam hadn't moved. "Thank you gentlemen. I'll give daddy a ring." He didn't wait for any one to leave the room before starting to dial. The men made their way out of the flat passed the officers stationed at the door.

"So will he make it? It wouldn't be the first time you lied, Sherlock."

"He has approximately an 85% chance Lestrade. My brother will be anxious to maintain Rt Hon Sommerton MP's position so soon after the last scandal. Also there is this dastardly overlap with Mummy that must be driving Mycroft mad. She would want a family… friend protected, but then again Mummy's opinion is never reliable. Provided he gets a passport, it is a waiting game. If the killers strike early his death will be unavoidable."

"Well, the other women are staying in France for the next two months so out of my jurisdiction. Who is next on your list?"

Sherlock watched John, who had a silly smile plastered on his face, and suppressed an odd urge to point out that he was saving people at his inconvenience. Unfortunately he didn't think that it could continue. "Need more data."

"Right, I'm organising an tea-break for the evidence locker men, tomorrow at 11am, you'll have 15 minutes, don't be late. And John, your present is being delivered."

"You didn't have too." John hoped that it was something mundane but personal, a new jumper or mug, rather than a scrubbed handgun.

* * *

John, wearing suit number two in charcoal, waited for Sherlock to finish examining the hedges of another Kensington town house.

"We're going to have to ring the door-bell eventually, Sherlock." Sherlock gave John his 'stop being obtuse' look as a dapper blond-haired man in his early thirties opened the door. "Can I help you?" He drawled in an accent not dissimilar from Sherlock's. "Shirley, is that you poking around my hedges?" He sounded like he had just announced the arrival of the Maharajah's tiger. "Bugger me, it is. Bloody hell, what nightmare has brought you here? Come in. I've got the work crowd round this evening, so we'll have our little chin-wag in the kitchen." He looked at John sceptically, "Well come on then: stop loitering on the doorstep."

Perched on the granite worktop, the man kept running his hands through his hair. _Guilty of something, _thought John. "Drink, something harder or have you really given it all up?" Sherlock didn't react. "Rather you than me. There's no hope of this being a social call is there?" Laughter could be heard from upstairs, the guests seemed to be having a good time. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Stop with the silent treatment Shirley or I'll start reminiscing with your partner here. Two fucked-up children without a care for their own bodies, I could write a novel."

"Threats don't become you George, and making that face adds at least eight years to your age."

"No, you were always better at threats, you and your bloody brother. He better know that you're still clean when you leave here. I'm don't want my hangover interrupted by tossers going through my sock draw." John had never thought he would meet someone who hated Sherlock as much as Sally Donavon.

"I think you know what I need."

"Is it about Henry and sodding Peter? I haven't seen Henry in years, you pretty much saw to that. Peter was a whining arse-licker, who never had the decency to speak in straight lines, but I didn't shop them out. And I've not received any threats either: clearly I'm not of interest. Daddy's dead and Mummy is more of wreck than I am so I can stay here with my dark secrets safely intact. Unless it was you all along and you're here to make me choose? Option A: your partner, many happy returns by the way, stuffs me full of merchandise or option B: tomorrow it's prison for, well, the whole lot of it. I'll take you with me. I've got friends and your brother isn't bloody God." John looked at George's eyes, pupils' blown, and counted his elevated breadth rate – cocaine.

"You aren't listening George, though I never expected you to. It's obvious you will be left alone. Shall I spell it out for you? I need Janet."

"Oh no Sherlock, no, it's not… I should just kill myself now. In front of that lot upstairs, I'll run up claiming you shoved the drugs down my throat at knife-point." He grabbed a large kitchen knife out of a wooden block. "You'll go to jail as a murdering bitch or even better brother dearest will have you interred in a nice sanatorium to rot in. George gets the ultimate victory: 'Sherlock Holmes, sloppy and dull, murders ex-school friend over drugs'." The man's breathing became more erratic but Sherlock remained nonplussed.

"Sit down George. Stop acting like a child."

"Janet isn't mine to sell. You know that Shirley." The knife made a clattering noise as hit the tiles. "I won't do it, you aren't worth it. I've changed." His breathing calmed down and he looked up at John, who glared back. "We made quite the team him and I, he would sell me information on anyone in return for a constant supply of substances, and I would extort money, drugs and services in return for our silence. His brother put a stop to it and Shirley went a bit loony sober. I think there was a fire. Anyway we kept away from each other from then on. Shirley found a new supplier and I found a new business model. It was a huge improvement: I no longer had to speak to the bitch. And even through all the humiliation, the enquires and the snubs, Daddy didn't let me use Janet."

"Hardly relevant, George."

"People will know that I gave it to you. I'll be cut off! I don't suit troubled outcast, hopeless hedonist is more my style."

"Obviously. Your life is not worth their direct attention but there are ways it could become unpleasant. Give me Janet."

"If this could stop the murders isn't that a good thing? It's your friends they are targeting." Sherlock gave John a look of exasperation.

"I think his earlier diatribe detailed his moral character quite well. George cares little for pleas of the heart."

"Oh, that is rich." George muttered darkly and stared off into the middle distance. John wondered if he had started to come down.

"Fine, I guess you are offering Johnstone's silence in return. That's why you are here now. You make sure he chooses the right choice, preferably a painful one, and I'll give up Janet. You've waited for years to take this leverage from us. I should have never told you Daddy had left it to me. I'm surprised you didn't have your brother take it from me immediately. Mind you, that would never have worked but now bloody two-timing Johnstone will squeal and we're all buggered. I really wouldn't be surprised if this whole thing was an elaborate rouse. The list of suspects is getting shorter Shirley, you sure you weren't just bored? If it goes to plan you know where to go. I'll notify the watchmen when you've paid."

* * *

"And people think I'm dramatic."

"Sherlock what was that, because to me that sounded like… it sounded like you guaranteed someone's death in return for information or hell, possibly even some woman, what do I know." John had managed to remain quiet until they were home but he was seething. Sherlock had spent most of the journey eyeing John's hands.

"Information, do please keep up. I affected no one's death. Really John, your moments of doubt are quite wounding."

John had sat down in his chair, fury coming off him in waves. "What was that then? Endangering ourselves by taunting a suicidal violent drug-addict, who hates you, for a bit of fun?"

"I was merely taking advantage of a unique opportunity to acquire information that had been withheld from me."

"What about Johnstone, I take it he is our mastermind's new target? Not going to notify Lestrade this time? Going to wait till he makes his choice?"

"He is already dead John. Lestrade texted hours ago and I simply withheld the corpse's identity. Normally this would please you John, it drew suspicion away from myself. I will continue to challenge your moral beliefs John; our new status hasn't changed my actions."

John grabbed Sherlock and planted a kiss on the detective's lips. "Not changed your actions at all?" Sherlock's cheeks turned a dusty pink and the final remnants of John's fury drifted away. John filed Sherlock's school days for another conversation, _right now he just too beautiful_… he kicked himself in the mental shin again, _where had all these damn feelings the unstable lanky git surfaced from again? _He tried to push them back down: right now he needed to not reward this sort of reckless behaviour.

Sherlock sank into John's embrace and went to kiss him again. "Don't we have a date with a corpse, Sherlock?" John was a little breathless, his pupils were dilated, and his pulse quick. He tried not to think about his body's reaction to Sherlock or why Sherlock's smell, gunpowder with hint of formaldehyde, was so wonderful.

"But this one will be quite dull." Sherlock didn't make any move to separate. John chuckled and they shared another sensual kiss. Finally they headed back to the battlefield.

* * *

The majority of the limbs had been bagged and tagged by the time Sherlock and John arrived. Lestrade wiggled his eyebrows in a disturbing manner and quipped that this is what happens when you are too 'busy.' In the centre of the room a pair of brass scales were balanced with a pound of flesh. They hadn't chosen the heart: it appeared to be his penis, fingers and toes.

"Looks like they took you up on the warehouse suggestion. We found the head; I don't suppose you could do the identification? He might be another school acquaintance." Lestrade motioned Sherlock to one of the blue evidence bags.

John gave the weighed appendages closer scrutiny. "They were removed whilst he was still alive," Anderson appeared behind him, "Sick fucker." Anderson looked over at Sherlock, eyes narrowing, " Are you not keeping him happy in the bedroom anymore? Oh, don't give me the 'we're not together in that way' speech I'm not an idiot."

John glowered and sighed disapprovingly. He wished Sherlock would identify Mr Johnstone so they could go home. He was right, as despite the gruesome nature of the murder and torture scene, the obvious _Merchant of Venice_ reference, the involvement of Mr Johnstone with druggie-George, and the clearly unrelated venue made it a bit dull. John began to agree with Sherlock that Moriarty was not directly involved: this was not tailored to Sherlock's talents at all.

"He is most likely Albert Johnstone, also in my year at Harrow, I haven't seen him since I was seventeen so there is a possibility that I am incorrect." Sherlock grimaced, "but it is unlikely. Mr Langford's murder would have followed this pattern if he had been less of a coward."

"We'll contact the family. What was did he do to capture our mastermind's attention?"

"He was a debtor, a pound of flesh for unpaid debts. He had a wide range of creditors but the killers were not one of them. It was his father, who sits on the board of Barclay's Bank, which he died trying to protect. I can think of four separate scandal worthy incidents he could have been threatened with. The killer's are from the same gang as the urban camouflage-wearing hoodlums that alerted you to Mr Langford. They met near Docklands last night, locals to South London, but very expensive to hire. The full dismemberment is a trademark of theirs."

"Ok Sherlock, you can go back to whatever you too were up to earlier. Let me know if you get enough data to give the next poor sod some warning."

* * *

"Are we any closer to finding our mastermind, Sherlock?" Sherlock had spent the evening setting up his new lab, and John had applied to few of the locums.

"As Lord Kilburn said 'the play's the thing,' unfortunately." Sherlock could not have put any more derision into his tone if he had been the type to spit.

"Tomorrow, then. Are you coming to bed Sherlock?"

"Are you asking me to?" Sherlock's tone was flat. "We could have Mycroft undo this." He gestured to the lab. "I was perfectly content with the kitchen."

"I'm quite enjoying having a kitchen for food preparation." Sherlock looked bemused, as if this was an alien concept. He took a long look at John.

"I'm not tired."

"Right, that's fine then, it's all fine. You can, um, join me later or I'll, um, see you in the morning then."

"I would still like to come to bed."

"Right, well, good." John had gone pink, "We should talk about, this, and it would make it easier to, um, go to bed."

"John, we are married, we enjoy exploring our physical connection…"

"The kissing, it would sound better if you said that you enjoyed the kissing."

"Right, kissing. I also enjoy being close you, holding you," Sherlock had stood up so he was standing beside John, hand out-stretched, "and I thought the pleasure was inversely proportional to the items of clothing worn at the time." Sherlock's smile was wide again and John gulped; his pink hue was now definitely red.

"Bed it is then." He took Sherlock's hand and was gently led to the bedroom. Sherlock began to remove his shirt. "It's, um, considered more fun to remove each other's clothes." John really hoped that he wasn't going to have to talk Sherlock through the whole process. Sherlock pulled John's jumper and t-shirt all in one go. "Enthusiastic, are we?" John chuckled.

"Yes, I thought that was the idea." John began to undo Sherlock's shirt buttons, making sure to rub his hands against Sherlock's chest feeling his heartbeat fast against his palms. John briefly wondered why he didn't try to compare this to his experiences with women but soon found it possible to have more than one mental track. John leant forward whilst unhooking the last button.

"Sometimes taking it slow is fun too." He captured Sherlock's lips, unhooked his arms from the shirt, and pushed him gently on to the covers. He opened his eyes, taking in Sherlock's debauched expression. "Fuck." At that moment Sherlock in all his lanky, curly-haired, male glory was the most beautiful sight in the world. Positioning himself so that he was at Sherlock's side, he began to trail kisses down his throat and relatively hair-less chest. Sherlock pulled John closer, and they gasped as their cocks met. John placed a hand on top of Sherlock's fly. "Do you want me to…"

"The less clothes the better, weren't you listening." John laughed and kissed Sherlock again; hands pulling at Sherlock's trousers, eliciting sharp gasps from the detective. Sherlock made very quick work of John's jeans, and they both kicked off their own socks. Another laden pause passed. "We can stop any time we want John." He placed his hands on John's boxers and squeezed. John slid his hand under the Sherlock's waistband and returned the favour. Sherlock's cock felt warm, the tip wet, and John shivered at the contact. Sherlock whisked off John's boxers and then took off his own: "too slow John."

Sherlock's cock was just like him, long and thin, John began to rub his hand up and down taking care to massage the tip. "Urgh, John, amazing" Sherlock mimicked the action but struggled to get a good rhythm until he matched John.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sherlock, fuck." Neither of them took very long as the sexual tension had been palatable since Saturday. Sticky and satiated they kissed again.

"You have a very dirty mouth, John." John mumbled something inaudible and buried his head into Sherlock's chest. He was drifting off to sleep. Sherlock contemplated showering; he didn't enjoy the cooling sensation, but wondered if John would take offense. He decided he could put up with it for one night and pulled a blanket over them, sneaking his arm in gap between John's neck and the pillow. Sherlock watched John lose consciousness: _brilliant, loyal, and all mine._

* * *

**A/N:** I had big problems with this chapter, not because of the smut, thought I would love your feedback, but because I introduce a sub-plot that I may have to leave to a sequel to clear up as I just hashed out my first draft to the end of the story and it isn't resolved yet. My original plot-bunnies have decided that they would be better as two separate stories or if it helps two parts to one book so I do have some hints for my next story in here too. On the plus side it stops me from mashing the plot bunnies together in a way that would have probably been confusing. I am sorry! I promise the thing I don't resolve is tiny to compared to every else. I also promise you the sequel as quick as I can write & edit! Let me know what you think in a review.


	7. Chapter 7: A Sharp Point

Thank you to all my readers, followers, favouriters, and reviewer, power0girl, who can have some of the coconut cake I will be making for work on Monday.

Disclaimer: All rights to BBC, Gatiss and Moffat. Blackadder belongs to Richard Curtis and Rowan Atkinson. Shakespeare, who I have quoted frequently, wrote Othello.

* * *

**Chapter 7: A Sharp Point**

"Good morning," John kissed Sherlock, who was wide-awake and starring at the ceiling. "Don't feel the need to stay, I know you don't need to sleep that much. I want you to do your work. Any thing is better than a bored Sherlock."

"I was working; I was thinking. You were comfortable and… silent." John smiled. He convinced Sherlock to eat two slices of toast in which he was almost worryingly compliant. The hormones seemed to make Sherlock eager to please, or perhaps it was just that John had agreed to stay _for life. _Sherlock went to yard to receive his wedding present and John opened his parcel. It was a framed photograph from their wedding day that Lestrade must have taken. Sherlock and John were standing together, slightly apart, with their eyes locked, hands clasped and huge smiles on their faces. '_Definitely love' _was scrawled on the back with the date in a little heart. John scowled: Lestrade couldn't resist trying to wind him up. He placed the picture on the mantelpiece beside the flowers, which were just starting to turn. Perhaps he would get some more.

John insisted on a pre-theatre meal at Angelo's, who when he received no protest about the candle, had come back with champagne. Neither of them had said anything unusual.

* * *

Lestrade guided his children into the three seats next to Sherlock and John. The resemblance to their father was strong, his soft brown eyes, and firm jaw present in both his son and daughter. "Boring…" Ten-year-old Elizabeth exclaimed as they waited for Othello to begin.

"I agree. Lestrade your daughter shows great promise." Sherlock smiled, and Elisabeth looked confused, most likely at her last-name being used to refer to her father.

"So Sherlock apart from the lack of entertainment, is there anything I should be worried about?" He glanced down at his children.

"You are perfectly safe, well as safe as you can be. Enjoy the play. Mr Greene has been busy. Did you put him under surveillance?"

"Yes, but he has done nothing suspicious nor received any threats as far as we can determine. He has simply perfected the play. One of my officers is undercover as a stagehand. He's been having an excellent time drinking and chatting up women, or 'fitting in the social environment' according to his reports."

* * *

John watched avidly as the actors sailed across a swirling sea of scenery. The little Lestrades fidgeted constantly but when asked to stop, pointed to Sherlock who was doing the same. John and Lestrade shared a look, "mine will grow up," he whispered.

During the interval Lestrade attempted to explain the plot…"Roderigo, the one in pink, is giving Iago money, blue shirt, so he can marry the pretty girl, but the girl loves Othello…" Sherlock had run off as soon as the curtain had fallen.

"John Watson, what ho."

"Lord Kilburn, thank you again. The set is beautiful."

"Luke's had a spot of bother with two of the actors, rummy-tummies, but Sherlock has sent me to tell you that he'll be expecting you to take notes." Lord Kilburn winked conspiratorially. The idea of the aging gentleman as the mastermind seemed absurd when he engaged in this level of pantomime. "Ah, Edwin, this is Sherlock's friend John Watson. Edwin, here, used to own the theatre but it's some trust thing now. Never been good with the small details, have you Edwin?"

John tried not to appear shocked: he wasn't as well-versed in toff speak as Sherlock, but there could be nothing good about an insulting introduction. Edwin was also in his 60s and a little portly "Nice to meet you…"

"Lord Wallingdon, charmed, Mr Watson." He let out a slight wheeze as he spoke.

"He's a Doctor, used to be in the army, a right proper chap. Shirley's made a good choice, though I rather think it takes a special sort of man to keep up with a Holmes. Do you remember their father, Edwin? Tall, foreboding, and rather distant fellow, no, it's Mrs Holmes that always made the best impression. Fanciful woman, dangerously intelligent." John thought back to their wedding day, perhaps this was some sort of coded message that meant 'sorry your new mother-in-law snubbed your wedding, I thought she was rude.'

"Are the children yours Dr Watson?" Lord Wallingdon's tone remained warm.

"Oh, they're my friend's Detective Inspector Lestrade, Lord Edwin Wallingdon, and this is Elizabeth and David." They shook hands, and Lord Wallingdon kissed Elizabeth's hand. She beamed and struck her prettiest princess-pose causing Lestrade to chuckle. Elizabeth's pretensions lived up to her namesake.

"A child's education is so important, ay Arthur. They are our future and we will be held accountable for their successes and failures."

"Quite, my good fellow, Ellie was always such a ray of sunshine and hope."

Edwin's glare was murderous; " You have out-done yourself recently. Helping the younger generation devote themselves to something that they love. You offer so many scholarships to encourage new ballerinas, actors, and politicians to make a mark on society. In fact they should give you an award, perhaps a commendation from the palace, for your good work. Don't you agree Dr Watson? I heard that you have become one of Lord Kilburn's more intimate supporters. Doesn't his Gray Foundation do so much?"

"Oh it's life-changing." John felt distinctly uncomfortable. Lestrade was busy making sure his children didn't interrupt.

"Ellie was part of my inspiration for the foundation, Edwin," Lord Kilburn's voice was uncharacteristically soft. "She fought valiantly for what she wanted, and I wanted to give others the chance too. John has seen it first hand, wouldn't you say that it's worth the sacrifice?"

"Sacrifice?' John paused whilst he thought through the metaphor. How to meld 'marrying Sherlock was fantastic' into 'giving disadvantaged children scholarships is altruistic.' "It's a wonderful experience, helping, I mean. The best day of my life so far."

"See, even proper chaps, like Dr Watson here, benefit from the gift of giving. It really is all in the small details, Ellie knew that, I just wish you could see it too, Edwin. We'll return to our seats now, enjoy the rest of the play gentlemen."

"Is Ellie dead?" David asked his father.

"Of course she is," Elizabeth replied in the haughty tones of an elder sibling who knew that she was right, "I bet she committed suicide and the man who kissed my hand blames the other man for her being sad. The other man blames himself too, that's why he gives scholarships away. To feel less guilty, so it must have been his fault. Do you think he didn't give her a scholarship when she needed one? May be she really wanted to be a ballerina and was so sad when she couldn't follow her dream that she gave up?"

John gaped: Lestrade had spawned a mini-Sherlock – could the world take two? "That was very clever Elizabeth, how did you work that all out?"

"It's like when mummy and daddy fought all the time. What they were really saying was hidden because they always used to talk about the washing up. Now mummy and daddy live apart they both do their own dishes and never speak about them." Lestrade turned pink. "It's like the play too; the Igor man is making everyone do bad things because he blames them all for his problems. He needs to care less about what the popular people think. "

John was still pleasantly surprised. "Most people think it is because he is jealous of the…popular people."

"He is jealous because he cares what they think. If he didn't care whether he was a popular kid, then he would be happy with his wife and could have kids of his own and be happy."

"I don't think Iago wants to have kids of his own darling; I think he wants to be in charge."

"Well, he can't be because he isn't friends with the Dukes, so he should stop trying. I bet it ends badly."

"I hope he 'esplodes.'" David ended the debate just in time for the curtain to pull up. Sherlock hadn't returned.

* * *

"I do not find that thou dealest justly with me." Sherlock's baritone resounded around the theatre and John nearly fell off his chair. He was playing Roderigo, who was berating Iago for lying to him. Iago was setting him up to murder the good lieutenant, Cassio. Sherlock was always a good actor, especially when it came to manipulating the public, but seeing him strutting across a stage in pink tights was too much for John. His sides ached from suppressing the laughter. Elizabeth was giving him a skeptical look; she was clearly impressed by his performance.

The next scene with Roderigo was his attempt at murder and his resulting death. John admired Sherlock's fencing footwork during the torch-lit duel. Iago raised his dagger theatrically to slay the injured Roderigo, and plunged it into Sherlock's abdomen, who curled his body in response. It was at this point where Sherlock went off script.

"You stabbed me." Sherlock stumbled back as the knife fell to the floor. A red stain appeared on his pink tunic.

The actor playing Iago looked resigned: a last minute replacement called in when even the understudy had to go to A&E was going to forget a few lines. "Kill men in the dark! Where be these bloody thieves?"

"Stabbed apparently, someone get my doctor." He tugged his tunic up to examine the wound and the entire cast froze. Blood dripped through Sherlock's hands and for once Sherlock looked genuinely shocked. John vaulted the seats in front of him and ran to the stage.

Iago began to hyperventilate and screamed, "Call an ambulance! He is… I… stabbed, bleeding."

John was there in a few more seconds hands stemming the blood flow. "Be calm ladies and gentlemen, and please remain in your seats." Lestrade waved his warrant card at the audience. "I am Detective Inspector Lestrade of the London Metropolitan Police Force. Please be calm and remain where you are whilst this man receives medical attention. Further members of the constabulary will be arriving momentarily." There was a cacophony of sirens, shouting and panic.

* * *

The next morning in the hospital, Sherlock opened his eyes to see an exhausted John perched on a plastic chair, clothing still soaked in Sherlock's blood. Sherlock felt numb and briefly reminisced in the opiate-induced glow.

"Did he make it, Colin Hemmsworth? Or was I too late?" Sherlock sounded disgusted at the prospect of still being in hospital.

"Oh Sherlock!" John kissed Sherlock full on the lips, "You're ok, you're such an idiot, but you're ok. You were bloody lucky you recoiled Sherlock, if that blade had gone in any deeper…"

"I wasn't in danger. This is nothing more than a deep graze."

John wasn't listening, "You know maybe we should get married legally. Live-in boyfriend almost wasn't enough for them to let me stay here. Mycroft sorted it out though." He ran his hands through Sherlock's curls, "I couldn't lose you, you suicidal git, don't leave me for the bloody thrill of it."

"I checked the knife. This was not my original plan John. Mr Hemmsworth's and the understudy's stomach pump should have saved them from their poisoner but I still checked some other mundane methods. The knife had not been switched before the interval." He paused, "Obvious. Have Lestrade arrest Cassio; he switched the blade during the comforting scene. With the low stage lighting it would have been easy."

John realised that them both not listening to each other was just unproductive. He would say his piece later. "What's so obvious? Why switch the knife when Roderigo's already in A&E?

"It wasn't mean for Colin Hemmsworth, John. We have our mastermind – finally he made his mistake. The game is on. "

"Rest Sherlock. I'll call Lestrade." John continued to stroke his hair as the nurses gave Sherlock a once over. On his way out to make the phone call John turned to look back at the now sleeping detective and whispered, "Never leave me."

* * *

"Iago, or rather Mr Breton's, passport didn't check out. Fake identity, fake history. Mr Colin Hemmsworth and the understudy Peter Jones are both recovering from their taste of cyanide. Looks like you got to them in time, thanks Sherlock." Lestrade placed a get-well-soon card on the table, next to Mrs Hudson's grapes.

"Is he an assassin then? Who watched a lot of Blackadder as a child?" John looked at Lestrade's blank face, "They have a joke about this happening during Macbeth. It's not important. Sherlock said it was Cassio. Why doesn't it comply with the pattern? Where are the crack team of professional killers?"

"It happened as planned. I was not meant to die." Sherlock had come to again and had clearly been listening. "Iago, Mr Noristov, is innocent of murder, but guilty of illegal immigration. Cassio, Mr Gittern, switched the knife, but it was still only meant to wound. It is short, and actors are trained not stab others in areas where this sort of mistake would lead to death." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, "When can I go home Doctor Watson? I'm bored."

"You said you knew the mastermind?" John reached out to hold Sherlock's hand.

"Yes, only one man could have orchestrated my replacement of Roderigo. I played the part at school and few would have retained this knowledge. His daughter was Desdemona. It was compulsory." He sneered at Lestrade's chuckle. "His motives are two-fold, first to hurt the Gray Foundation directly by killing its supporters, and to remove the Gray's Foundation's key influence by hurting certain banks and government officials. In short, his aim was destroy everything Lord Kilburn had built. Of course, it was the revenge that made him target the children not cowardice. His jealously that Desdemona's lover, Victoria Kilburn, was welcomed and accepted when she finally told her parents. Desdemona chose to end her life than let her face the scandal, Victoria didn't have to make a choice at all."

"Wait, I'm missing something Sherlock, what has this got to do with scholarships for underprivileged children?"

"The Gray Foundation organised our ceremony on Sunday, that is it's primary purpose. The charity work is how you pay for it."

"Desdemona, was she called Ellie?" John asked quietly. Sherlock's smile grew frighteningly wide again, an expression John knew meant 'Sherlock would like to kiss him now.'

"Excellent! John that was beyond... Did Lord Kilburn talk about the foundation?" He squeezed John's hand tighter.

"Actually it was Elizabeth who worked it all out. She picked up on the subtext of Lord… Wellington, no, Wallingdon's conversation. Although she thought that Ellie had wanted to be ballerina and Lord Kilburn had not given her a scholarship. You have a little prodigy."

"Impressive. Lestrade your daughter cracked the case! May be you should employ her too."

"I'll be keeping my daughter away from crime-scenes until she is at least eighteen - seeing your stabbing was enough. You will have to come for dinner next time I have them; they need to see that you're not dead. Don't bring any body parts this time."

"He has to get out of hospital first. Do you have enough to arrest Lord Wallingdon?" John didn't think 'he was the only person there that knew I could play Roderigo' would stand up in court.

"His presence last night is enough for a search warrant."

"Wait until I'm out of here, I can lead you to the evidence. Right now hold off the press." Lestrade nodded and returned to work.

* * *

"Moriarty isn't involved at all, is he? He would never risk _your_ life ending in such a ridiculous parody."

"John, like I said before the danger was minimal. No, Moriarty is not involved. Lord Wallingdon was our mastermind, and he has his own funds and connections. It was his interference in government that caused Mycroft to position the case so enticingly. Mycroft pretended to be my acquaintance. Rather more effort than normal for my brother, he must have really wanted Wallingdon removed. I suspect that Mummy's closeness to the Wallingdon's blocked direct action."

"I don't understand why he risked it all to have you killed? Poisoning the understudy too just so he could manipulate you onto stage. Was it just to make you back off, if so he doesn't know you, and honestly Sherlock – did you know he would try?" John let his anger seep out for the last question. He needed Sherlock to stop risking his life; he needed Sherlock to realise that it hurt him too.

"He wanted to advertise that supporting the Gray Foundation is a deadly game. The public forum for my attempted execution was too much for him to resist. However, he did not want me dead so I was confident that any attempt would be ineffective."

John was appalled, "I still don't understand why he didn't want to kill you. Surely distancing Mycroft from the Foundation would be in-line with his plans."

"Obviously he is an intelligent man, John, and encouraging the full wrath of my brother is not an action taken by intelligent men. Now to more pressing matters. Our problems are three-fold. First I must send you to collect Janet, as this opportunity cannot be missed. Secondly we must ensnare Wallingdon, who still believes he is unsuspected. Our third problem concerns your declaration to the nurses upon our arrival. You should have waited for Mycroft John, Moriarty will be very interested to learn how our relationship has… developed."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you again for reading - any feedback is most appreciated. Next chapter up soon!**


	8. Chapter 8: Checkmate

Hello! I am so sorry for the incredibly long wait, as is the case for these things lots of work/health related stuff got out of hand. On the plus side I am finished this fic. There is an epilogue, which I will upload tomorrow, as I want to give it a last proof read. Thank you so much for reading, favouriting and reviewing. Love you all.

**Chapter 8: Checkmate**

John stood in the rain outside a Cornish cottage. It had taken five hours to drive here and John was craving a warm cup of tea.

"You're here for a box are you dearie? A very old woman, possibly in her 90s, answered the door. "What was the name?"

"Um, Janet, Mrs…" John was escorted into a decaying living room, crammed with family photos. She hobbled up the stairs to an attic room without replying and John took a seat in a peach armchair. Eventually she returned with a dusty cardboard box.

"Take good care of it dearie." She ushered him back into rain, tea-less. John sat in the rental car and starred at the box. What would druggie George trade for his lifestyle secrets? What would Sherlock not have access to? What were Mr Johnstone and druggie George's lives worth? Although John severely doubted George had meant any of that suicide threat.

He lifted the lid, and years of dust fell onto his lap. John paused, pulled on a pair of gloves, and peered in. Photographs of a woman and a baby dated 1944. They looked happy, the woman looked familiar but John couldn't place her. They were mainly taken near a Dracula-like castle next to a lake. John searched for a name. On one of the photos 'Sylvia' could just be made out in faded ink, Sherlock's mother then? The last name had been scribbled over relentlessly as had the name of Sherlock's grandmother. John started the long drive back to London.

* * *

Sherlock was out of hospital but was on strict orders not to do 'any running about,' which made Lestrade threaten to refuse him cases so that he complied. Sherlock retaliated by barring Lestrade's children from Baker Street but John had let them in anyway. Elizabeth, instead of being disappointed by the detective's sulking, suggested ways to win her father over and it was Sherlock's threat to take her advice and, "replace all his r's with wouble-yous until he gave in," that made Lestrade order some cold-cases to be brought over immediately.

The box had promptly been declared 'boring' after a brief inspection as soon as Sherlock had come home. John had huffed as Sherlock discarded the photographs unceremoniously on top of some newspapers. He wondered why he had to drive all the way through the bloody night to collect them if they were so inconsequential. Although John was then confused when it was Lestrade's interest in the pictures that prompted Sherlock to throw them immediately. The box then disappeared from the living room and John's enquiries deflected.

* * *

Sherlock had been insufferable for the rest of the week but John's kisses and Lestrade's cold cases had helped shut him up. Sherlock had barely slept, but when John did finally manage to convince him to join him, they awoke tangled in each other's limbs. It was comforting how little their relationship had changed now they were married. John hadn't expected the detective to suddenly develop an insatiable sex-drive after years of ignoring all bodily functions and his own had never led him to seek causal sex. After years in the army, and long cold patches between girlfriends, John found that he didn't crave sexual activities as much as the 'average male.' However, being this close to Sherlock was trying his patience, which had got him through Sexual Crisis Week. The kissing and comforting touches were bloody brilliant.

"Come on, let me check your bandages, you've been examining those eye balls for half an hour. They are still shrivelled." Sherlock shifted so that John could remove his dressing gown. The bandages covered his lower torso and although Sherlock had been right, the knife had not penetrated as deep as it should have, the damage was still going to take a few weeks to heal properly. John leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder enjoying the smell of his shampoo. He placed a tentative kiss on Sherlock's exposed neck.

"How is Wallingdon's trap progressing?" Sherlock dropped his arms from the microscope and let john probe and investigate his torso.

"I think my brother will finally be ready next week. He is dawdling."

"If he wasn't Mycroft I might think he's waiting until you are better." Sherlock let out half a smile as John returned to kissing his hair. He was bemused by the amount of contact John seemed to initiate considering his preference for female sexual partners. John often hugged, kissed and petted Sherlock when Sherlock wasn't particularly engrossed in something. He wondered if John touched him when he was busy as he still found himself talking to an empty flat on occasion when John went out or if he knew exactly when Sherlock would not mind the interruption.

He supposed that the halt in their sexual progress was most likely due to his injury. He was pleased that his hypothesis: that John would not provide further disruption to his work as his lover had been tested ad found true. However, he was aware that he felt an unfulfilled need building; a feeling not unlike what he felt when a case still had loose ends. He hoped that John's petting was a sign that when he was healed there would not be such a long period of abstinence.

Sherlock made his way over to the sofa, and John obediently followed. Briefly considering the best actions that would indicate his intent, he swept John up into an embracing hug. He placed his hands on John's cheek and kissed him intensely. As Sherlock worked on removing John's shirt, John snuck his hands into Sherlock's back trouser pockets. "Are you sure Sherlock? I don't want to hurt you."

"I am quite sure that my wound will sustain mild physical activity."

"Well if that's _your _medical opinion, Sherlock. Bedroom?" All of a sudden they both were wearing too many clothes.

"Delighted." Some fumbling and Sherlock was laid out for John entirely naked, and very hard. John knelt over Sherlock, who naturally held his hands behind his head where John could easily use them to pin him down. His cock twitched at the thought but today he needed to be careful not to stretch Sherlock's torso. "Like what you see?" John kissed him hard and let their groins touch. They both gasped.

"God, you're brilliant."

"Obviously." John began to plant kisses down Sherlock's chest, ignoring his slightly too evident ribs, and hovered over Sherlock's cock. His breadths causing it to twitch with each exhale. "John!" Sherlock bucked and John couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's wanton expression. _Mine_

He began to kiss its long shaft and was relatively surprised that the taste was not repulsive. John had never really succeeded at oral sex in his previous partners, as although he was attentive, they always made him stop quickly. However, he knew what he liked. The majority of his fantasies involved blow-jobs and recently they had been blow-jobs from people with short curly dark-brown hair. He gave Sherlock a smirk and swallowed as much as he could, using his hand to support the rest. _Going to have to work on my gag reflexed_, he pondered as he concentrated on causing Sherlock to emit the most sensual of groans. He hummed in satisfaction as Sherlock bucked and writhed on the bed sheet muttering his name over and over again. _Can I get Sherlock to swear?_ He wondered again, using his other hand to caress his balls. His own cock was leaking profusely as Sherlock's calls became louder and louder until he felt his lover's cock vibrate and salty liquid filled his mouth. Sherlock looked more relaxed than John had even seen him. He met John's eyes as his own flashed with concern.

"I believe etiquette dictates that I should have warned you." John placed a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "The etiquette is also that I should reciprocate. Unless you want to fuck me John?" John almost came at the suggestion.

"Fuck Sherlock. You saying fuck should come with a health warning." John tried to slow his breathing. "Lets not rush this. I'm happy with whatever you want to do, so long as you touch me soon, you bloody tease." Sherlock scanned John and John wandered what his body language told Sherlock. Probably 'bend over now and let me mould you into this mattress.'

"It would be optimum for you to stand, John." Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed but their heights did not make this ideal. He sat crossed-legged on the floor instead and John mused at how perversely innocent the position made Sherlock appear. John tucked one of Sherlock's curls behind his ear as Sherlock began to kiss his thighs.

"Tease." John tugged Sherlock's hair more forcefully. He tried to control his breathing, doing anything to stop himself from forcing Sherlock take his cock. Sherlock began to lick, enjoying nuzzling the wiry blonde curls. Then, because Sherlock was never lacking at any skill you could practice with appropriately shaped fruit, he took John in one gulp and sucked gently, mimicking the rhythm that John had beat out with his hand. "Fuck, I'm…" Sherlock positively drank from John in big gulps, and John's knees collapsed causing him to join Sherlock on the floor.

"Sleep?" John kissed Sherlock full on the mouth and they made their way under sheets. Sherlock managed to fall unusually easily into a light dose whilst John snuggled into his chest.

* * *

John was beginning to feel quite at home in black-tie as he watched Sherlock avoid talking to as many people as possible. Strangers had approached them all evening to tell them _how terrible it was_ and ask _how he was feeling_: Sherlock's answers were always creative. The party was organised by Lord Kilburn under the pretence of apologising for 'all that mess' at the play, which had gone on to sell-out with added publicity. Sherlock posed as hero of the hour well enough and managed to not murder-by-deduction _every_ person who had commented that 'the play must go on'.

"I must admit that my brother has grown-up in the last few years. More than I thought he ever would." Mycroft materialised beside John.

"Well, he's certainly more willing to put on a good act." John gave Mycroft a smile and edged slightly further from the man. Brother-in-law he may be, but there was something cold and slimy about Mycroft that made John want to be out with slithering distance.

"I know you think it's for the case, John, but his performance has only one intended audience member. Be careful, if mother manages to get wind of his improved demeanour, avoiding her soirees will be impossible."

"When you eliminate the impossible…"

"Quite." Mycroft did not laugh with John. "I am glad that you are an improving influence on my brother, John, I do worry."

"More than Mummy?" Mycroft's icy glare was like an execution order.

"Mummy has a more active way of worrying. She tends to either become irrevocably involved or to act as if nothing is out of place. I find that I must be the subtle one in the family."

"What about your father?" Mycroft was now having his minions pour petrol on his funeral pyre. "Was he more like you, then, what with your mother enjoying… the leg-work more."

"Father was more intelligent and somewhat a calming influence on the two of them. Though Sherlock never interacted with him much. He died when he was eight and spent Sherlock's formative years studying in his private library. Mummy would oft cruelly remark that if he died we would only know after the maids had to remove his uneaten dinner for a week. "

"But he was… involved in your upbringing?"

"Yes, before Sherlock was born he took an active role in moulding me into the man I am today. He was appropriately strict and caring but was satisfied to fulfil his paternal duties for only one heir. Mummy cajoled or ignored us both equally so in many ways she was the better parent. I'm afraid Sherlock's teenage rebellion was a rather stereotypical response to a lack of affection. As I have pointed out to Sherlock many times his actions were, as he would put it – dull."

John imagined Sherlock playing with his science experiments alone, with his mother swooping in occasionally to give him long lessons in social etiquette and the people that he should know. There were probably a stream of tutors and violin teachers that Sherlock enjoyed sending home crying. John's childhood had been fairly typical. His parents never quite knew how to deal with Harry's mood swings and 'acting-up' so he was generally praised if slightly ignored. John had been closest to his Grandfather, who had lived a few streets away for most of John's early childhood. He had taught him card-tricks, pranks to pull on his sister and regaled him with heroic stories of war with the Jerries. After running away to university, it had only seemed natural to run away to war too straight after. Mycroft interrupted his musings.

"Sherlock will never accept my role but I have always tried to steer him to the right path. I am aware that there is a little ill feeling between us, John; over the way you think that I _use_ my brother. Please understand: you believe that Sherlock can care about you, so do me the courteously of believing that I can care about him."

"I'm not spying on him for you, Mycroft."

"No, your loyalty to Sherlock is above even that of Queen and Country now. I only ask that you do not mistake my motivations. You even may manage to make Sherlock acknowledge that he is often his own arch-nemesis. Well, this has been pleasant, brother-in-law," he whispered the honorific, "but I must continue to uphold mother's teachings and, ah, extract the necessary confession with her customary grace." John sniggered as he imagined Mycroft in a ballerina costume pirouetting around Lord Wallingdon.

Sherlock had explained the outlines of their plot and John had thought it oddly overly romantic for the Holmes' brothers. He wondered if being stabbed in the name of art had made Sherlock construct a more poetic end or if it was all for his blog. There had been other options, for one Mycroft's men could have engineered financial transactions that would have had Wallingdon sent-down for the weaker charge of conspiracy to murder. Or they could have constructed a case that presented Lord Wallingdon as his daughter's murderer and avoided airing the victim's scandals. Mycroft had favoured this option and wished Sherlock to present the case to the public but had he refused on the grounds that it was boring. John suspected that he had more moral misgivings about fabricating an entire case than his brother believed. Mycroft and Sherlock had fought in 221B for almost an hour over the matter. There had been little talking, merely glaring, but it was possible to hear the mental clashing of swords.

Instead they chose to reveal the very real scandal of Lord Wallingdon's arms trading in the Balkans in the 1990s, which was more damaging to the current government than Mycroft would normally tolerate. Mycroft was convinced by the ease at which the seat in the House of Lords could pass to Lord Wallingdon's nephew if he was sent to abroad for the trial. The same choice that he had offered Lintyre, Gosphor, Langford, and Johnstone would be implied. He had until this morning to kick a proverbial bucket or the scandal would be revealed. To seal the deal Mycroft insinuated that the former option would facilitate a closer working relationship between Lord Kilburn and himself, whose interesting work Lord Wallingdon had brought to his attention.

Mycroft and Sherlock had tracked down two of Mr Wallingdon's fixer's middle management that were to be charged with arranging the murders for the most obvious of motivations but who could not be connected to their main employers. Lintyre death was for extortion, Gosphor was to be murdered for a political statement, Johnstone was for his debts and Langford was going to keep quiet for a reduced sentence. Sherlock found the resulting plan unsatisfactory but his brother stopped him from 'bringing the House of Lords down to the level of the Commons.' Mycroft wished to insulate the House of Lords from the threat of electoral reform. This fallacy of democracy left a bitter taste in John's mouth. A bank could be too big to fail, he understood that, but a person should not be able to be above the law. Then again: where was Mycroft if not above the law?

John idly eyed the room as Mycroft preformed the end of his dance. The wheels had been set in motion earlier that week and his decision on the ultimatum was to be collected tonight. Lord Wallingdon had stormed straight to Lord Kilburn afterwards. He must have wanted a few choice last words.

* * *

"Controversial Lord commits suicide on anniversary of daughter's death. Lord Edwin Wallingdon, famous for his vocal support of gay-marriage, was found dead at 8 am this morning. Coroner reports indicate that he died in the bath, mimicking his daughter's suicide attempt almost twenty years ago…"

The BBC announcer continued to detail Lord Wallingdon's contributions to society. The kettle boiled and John made himself and his husband a well-earned cup of tea.

On days when Sherlock was being particularly insufferable; John wondered how much Sherlock's role in the Gray Foundation had been strictly necessary. Only Sherlock would marry for his work and be perfectly content with the outcome. Sherlock claimed that Mycroft had needed the personal motivation of his brother's involvement in the Gray Foundation to act to protect its members but John thought that the attacks on members of the cabinet would have been sufficient. It was the public visibility of these attacks that had signed Lord Wallingdon's death warrant, not the stabbing of the younger Holmes.

Still John was now a married man, and although he could not scream it from the rooftops lest Moriarty over-hear; he was wonderfully content with his status.

"What are you thinking about, Sherlock? Or do I not want to know."

"I am waiting. I believe Moriarty will test us. He has indicated he is aware of the progression in our physical relationship." Sherlock waved his phone in John's direction.

"How much does he know? Did we leave the curtains open or has he got access to cameras that your brother _said _he had removed?" He looked at Sherlock. "You did get all you brother's cameras? Mycroft hasn't been watching John/Sherlock porn, has he?" John's voice squeaked at the end as he pictured the many times he and Sherlock had played around over the past few weeks. Sherlock was now completely healed and wanted to thoroughly test his limits. There had been a particularly wonderful head session in the shower than John was itching to repeat. Sherlock considered whether his brother would watch or switch-off a recording of them having sex. It was a more difficult question than it should be, his brother was undeniably perverted and curious, but was he perversely curious?

"I believe my brother would not wish me to return the favour."

John relaxed and leaned on Sherlock's shoulder soaking up his unusual smell. "And Moriarty?"

"Oh, he would watch us repeatedly, but I believe he has acquired tis information via informants in Mycroft's organisation rather than his own surveillance."

"Well thank God for that. Since no one is watching…" John gestured towards the bedroom.

Sherlock smiled that wide-smile. "I believe the appropriate response is 'Oh God, yes."

* * *

A/N:

Thank you so much and again my humblest of apologies. Epilogue tomorrow. Goodnight and please let me know what you think.


	9. Chapter 9: Epilogue

Thank you so much for your support and reviews. Here is the epilogue.

**Epilogue**

Sitting in an uncomfortable armchair that was probably worth more than all his possessions, John tried to drink his tea as calmly as he could. In Mycroft's words, 'it was time for John to meet Mummy properly.' John remembered the pictures of grandmother and baby Mrs Holmes and wondered if she had known her parents. He was pretty sure that Mycroft did not know that he had collected a box of photographs of her but John knew Mycroft must have know of his visit to the Cornish seaside.

Mrs Holmes made her entrance, dress swishing as she marched into the drawing room. "Mycroft! Must you interfere with your brother and I so? At least your father knew how to leave people alone." The Holmes' mansion, which was probably early Victorian since every surface was covered in ornately carved dark wood, had just the correct type of double swing doors that slammed shut, punctuating her remark.

"I thought that a proper introduction to Dr John Watson would be beneficial. He is your son's husband, and very much a part of this family. You will be expected to be aware of his exploits, and to have your own opinion of the man."

"I have built my opinion from Sherlock's stability and happiness, Mycroft. A further conversation will not provide pertinent information as well you know." She turned to the Doctor, "Nevertheless, it is a pleasure Dr Watson. I understand how heavy handed Mycroft can be in these situations. I suppose he had you bundled into a car and driven here. All for a dry scone, a cup of tea and a pointless exchange of pleasantries. I don't know which of my sons is worse, the one who forces the world to dance to his tune or one who deconstructs the music. Neither of them can sing." Mrs Holmes left through a second door that probably to find where Sherlock had stormed off upon arrival.

"You must not mistake her jibes for dissatisfaction with the situation, John. She simply wishes to make sure that I receive no credit for stabilising Sherlock. Sherlock does need family, as she pointed out at the wedding, and Mummy and my brother are so alike. Perhaps we can try Christmas again; it has been so many years since we gave-up." John became even more uncomfortable. He wasn't sure that any one person should be allowed to see the Holmes brothers being this human. There must be a quota he has exceeded somewhere.

"You are welcome to Christmas at Baker Street Mycroft, whatever Sherlock says. You are… family too."

"Thank you, John, I might try a brief visit one of these years." John returned to drinking the cooling tea.

"As for the man whose reaction Sherlock awaits impatiently, I have no further information to give you. While monitoring his larger operations are par for the course for many government departments; his more personal vendettas are still somewhat unpredictable." John nodded and gazed out at the gardens. Sherlock was just visible conversing with his mother in a large greenhouse.

* * *

Sherlock observed John and Mycroft's awkward postures through the greenhouse glass. His mother had begun to prune an errant grape vine as Sherlock returned his attention to an ailing hibiscus.

"Lord Wallingdon was peculiarly dull for someone who orchestrated such an exquisitely elaborate revenge scheme. He kept up with years of society gossip as well, despite being intolerably obtuse. But most mysteriously, Mummy," Sherlock turned to smile innocently at his mother, "he left Lord Kilburn's daughter and wife alone and instead struck at his enemy politically. He was such an old testament fellow as well."

His mother returned his smile as Sherlock directed his analytical gaze back to a row of African Violets. "He certainly proved to be an interesting man to you Sherlock. He kept you quite occupied; I do hate to think of you being bored."

"Some criminals can be ever so boring, Mummy."

"I suppose some people lack the imagination. Now you are a happily married, sexually active young-man with an exciting career ahead of him. I've only ever wanted the best for my boys."

"Mycroft never interacted much with Lord Wallingdon's circles, did he?"

"No dear, Mycroft has your father's ability to be blissfully unaware of the faults of those he truly loves, a useful character trait in a husband. Speaking of which, shouldn't you return to yours?"

"Yes, Mummy."

* * *

Thank you so much again. There will be a sequel coming soon as my life has taken a turn for the increased free-time recently. Hurrah!

Thank you for reading and commenting - this has been a very enjoyable experience. Criticism is welcome. I will try and use it to improve the sequel.


End file.
